Empire State of Mind
by sparrowed
Summary: Castiel makes a friend in New York City. And like many New York sitcoms, this is a story about nothing. Castiel/OC.
1. Desperately Seeking Castiel

Contrary to the question Dean intended to ask upon the sudden appearance of a certain angel (which was _"Where the hell have you been?"), _a different question emerged at the very sight of him.

"… uh, what are you smiling at?"

Castiel didn't realize he was smiling. Now conscious of it, it vanished as quickly as it had been noticed. He had literally just popped into the Winchesters' motel room, and found the brothers having what they would call "down time". Sam was sprawled out on the sofa with his laptop balanced atop his middle, whilst Dean sat on the bed, hunching over to remove his shoes.

"Where the hell have you been?" Dean asked the originally intended question as he offered the room, and its inhabitants, the smell of his bare feet. Sam's nose wrinkled in habitual disgust. Castiel seemed unaffected; he had a tolerance level that reached, well, the heavens.

He tilted his head in the mystified manner that was truly his. "Was I needed?"

"Well," Dean gave a futile shrug, "not really, I dunno. I just assumed you were tagging along with us now, twenty-four seven. Solving cases and shit."

Castiel continued to calmly stare as though Dean was still talking.

"Ahh, forget it," he dismissed with a flourish of his hand. "So where were you, anyway? Heaven? Of course you were. It's _heaven."_

"I was in New York City," he answered, coolly pulling a chair to sit at the foot of Dean's bed.

Castiel's gaze flew up at the sound of Dean's disgust and found him grimacing. He frowned, affronted; he had never received that reaction before.

"What?"

"What were you doing in New York, Cas?" asked Sam, offering him a small, long-suffering smile.

"You know," began Dean, stretching out on his bed until comfortable, "if you wanted to know what hell was like, you could have just asked me."

Sam's brow furrowed in annoyance but his smile remained; clearly, he was used to this kind of remark.

"What's wrong with New York City?" Castiel asked.

"Oh, he's one of _them,"_ Dean scoffed past the angel to Sam, who didn't appear to be acknowledging his brother anytime soon. Castiel was beginning to feel like the piggy in the middle. "I bet Jimmy was a Yankee."

"A what?"

"There's nothing wrong with New York, Cas," Sam reassured patiently, not even pausing to dignify Dean's response of "HA!" with a mere blink. "What were you doing there anyway?"

There were a number of reasons, but there was one main motivation. "I've… never been," he answered with a small shrug.

"Sooo," Dean began obnoxiously, assuring Castiel that some mockery was soon to follow, "you were going on a little vacation to The City So Nice, They Named It Twice, while Sammy and I smoke the baddies ourselves?"

"You've never had trouble before," Castiel countered, shooting him a pointed look. Another thing occurred to him, his brow knitted. "And weren't you just implying that New York City was akin to hell?"

"I —" Dean froze; he swept through their entire conversation in his head before clinching with a meagre: "Bitch."

Castiel blinked. "Interesting."

"What?" The older Winchester glanced back up to see that Castiel's eyes had, once again, glossed over with that maddening naivety of his. He was like martian … though that analogy wasn't too far from the truth.

The angel regarded him with those disturbingly invasive eyes. "You seem to abominate New York City, yet you speak like a local."

A snort emerged from Sam's direction, which he tried to obscure by taking a swig of beer that had been untouched up until that point, all the while peering over at his brother to gauge his reaction.

Flabbergasted by the angel's snark, albeit unintentional, Dean then shook his head with a jolt and held up his palms in defeat. "Alright, I don't need this. Since our crappy ass TV ain't working, you might as well enlighten us with some stories."

Another blink. "Stories?"

"Yeah." Dean stretched out, even more so, on the bed, his hands clasped together atop his middle. "Y'know, _Castiel's_ Tales of New York City!" He emphasized with an encouraging wave of his hand. "Breakfast at _Castiel's_, Citizen _Castiel_, Desperately Seeking _Castiel_, Friday the 13th Part VIII: _Castiel_ Takes Manhattan, When _Castiel_ Met Sally, _Castiel_ Alone 2: Lost in New York – stop me, anytime —"

Sam did. "Were you there for a case, or a, a meeting or —?"

"An 'angel press conference', ha ha ha…"

"No. I was there because I was…" Bored? Restless? Impulsive? "… curious."

"Curious?" Dean echoed flatly, as though this was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard.. Castiel suddenly felt sheepish, but did not convey it physically.

"Uh … I saw images of New York City on your television set one night —"

"Were you watching Law and Order?" snorted Dean.

"– and I observed many visuals of the city at night —"

"Probably Gossip Girl," Dean whispered to Sam, with a decisive nod.

"– and there was one image of a huge tree…" His gaze softened with an emotion he didn't yet know he could feel, but the brothers could clearly read upon his face: wistfulness. "– a _Christmas_ tree, which was, if I recall correctly, at Rockefeller Center."

"And you went there… to see a tree?" Castiel was growing tired of Dean's condescending tone.

"Is that strange, Dean?" Castiel asked, with more of an edge than usual. "I thought it was at first, but then I saw that there were many other humans in attendance too, just looking at the tree, taking photographs…"

"Did… you take a photo?" asked Sam, pulling a face to himself and wondering why on earth he would ask an angel that. Had he glanced up, he'd have perceived his brother pondering the same.

"No. But…" When he then rose to his feet and began rummaging through the pockets of his trench coat, the brothers shifted with interest. "… someone did take one of me."

He drew out and held a photograph in his hands, not knowing which brother to give it to – a dilemma of which was resolved when Dean plucked it out of his hands with a quick "Yoink!".

He was standing, facing the famous Christmas Tree at Rockefeller Center at nighttime. The photo appeared to have been captured from behind, though he was angled enough for the camera to capture both his front and his back – slightly more the latter. It seemed to have been taken from a kneeling or bent stance, turned slightly upwards, and most likely with the visual advantages of a fish-eye lens.

But the most distinguishable aspect of the photo was also the most disturbingly coincidental. Someone standing in the background, off in the distance, had worn a long white overcoat. It seemed the wind had been blowing just as the photograph was taken, and with the white overcoat being slightly blurred from being captured in motion, it looked as if there were pure white wings sprouting out of Castiel's back. This, together with the kaleidoscope of fairy lights that adorned the Christmas tree Castiel was looking at, created a very stunning photograph.

"Hits a little too close to home, don't you think?" Dean's tone was playful, but Castiel saw that he was genuinely impressed.

"Who took the photo?" Sam asked, who had moved from his spot on the couch and was now peering over the angel's shoulder to see the photo for himself.

"A photographer, of course," his eyes glazed over fondly at a memory, but went unseen by both brothers.

"Yeah, but –" Dean flipped the photo over. "Ah, here we g – _ooh,_ we got a message here!" He keenly waved the photo in the air. "You got a message, Cas!"

"I know." Castiel reclaimed his seat as Dean held the photo up to his face and proceeded to read the message out melodramatically. Sam maneuvered to sit on the edge of Dean's bed to read it also.

"To Castiel! We've only just met but I feel the need to tell you that you are aesthetically pleasing and very photogenic! That's my long and winded way of telling you that you are gorgeous. And interesting too! I don't know about you, but I had a great time chatting to you last night. I hope you weren't freaked out by the groping thing; I swear, I was just checking if you were a creeper. Also, I didn't mean to insult your religious preferences; I'm still really, really sorry about that. But I'm glad to have made your acquaintance and I hope we can be friends. Ex oh, ex oh, _Audrey_." Dean dropped his arm and grinned wickedly at the angel with an almost accusing finger. "You dog! You aesthetically pleasing dog!"

Castiel suppressed a smile that threatened his lips, allowing only the ghost of one to surface.

"So, she's a photographer?" asked Sam, peering up to Castiel from the photo.

"Yes. A …" He still had the correct phrasing in his mind somewhere. "A… freelance photographer who often submits work to an independently managed photography magazine in New York."

"Audrey, Audrey, Audrey," enthused Dean with a smirk, regarding the photograph as though it was her. "Audrey _who?"_

"Audrey Hathaway."

"So, is she —"

"She's a twenty-nine year old Athiest who was born on the thirty-first of October in East Village, Manhattan and currently resides in the Upper East Side. She has a cat named Rembrandt and has two friends who run a record store on West 48th, and their names are Jody Dreyfus and Nicholas von Gillern, but everyone calls him Nicky because he's homosexual. She lives in a condominium and also has a neighbor who she calls, behind her back, a "gap-toothed bitch"."

For the most part, Dean and Sam mirrored each other's gobsmacked expressions, but Dean just couldn't let that last part pass. "How _is_ Madonna, anyway?"

"You seem to know a lot about her." There was a suggestive note in Sam's tone that had the angel peering up to him warily. "You guys been hangin' out or something?"

"Yes? She's a lovely girl." He saw no reason to say otherwise, but the stupid grins exchanged between _both_ brothers unsettled him. He felt like a dart board, with these two aiming at him with their implications – _whatever_ they were intending to imply.

"So, you guys made out yet?" Dean probed with a roguish grin.

"I beg your pardon?" Castiel spluttered, despite knowing exactly what he meant. With his eyes as wide as saucers, it was easy for Dean to become aware of that fact, and his grin only broadened.

"You know, first base?" he continued to probe, merely to egg him on. Sam veiled his face with his palm, but Castiel couldn't overlook his swelling grin and the sound of his snorting through his nose.

Although he knew what Dean was asking, he wasn't quite familiar with the term "first base".

"I… I don't – _what?"_ His panic and ingenuousness was evident and undeniably amusing for Dean, who couldn't stop beaming mirthfully at the angel's expense. He scowled at this, but said nothing further.

"Cas, relax," Sam rushed in to save him with a sympathetic tone, though amusement was still written all over his face. "Why don't you just tell us what happened when you were in New York?"

* * *

I should clear up some things.

**1)** This is Post-Apocalypse (or alternate universe), _December 2012_

**2)** This story explores matters about life, humanity and religion than that of the supernatural … but mainly nothing

**3)** This is very Castiel-centric

**4)** This story has no plot, so don't expect Xenamegistarunafunakilanistar the demon to pop up and wreak havoc - let's not demonstrate my lack of technique in genre writing

**5)** This is Castiel/OC (though their relationship has little plot either, lol) so if you're not into that kind of thang, don't read it.

For those who are fine with all of the above, I hope you continue reading! And reviewing. :D


	2. When Castiel Met Audrey

It wasn't as razzle dazzle, _"New York! New York!"_ as he had imagined. It had more of a _"Move it, ya bum!"_,_ "Shaddap, I'm walkin' here!"_ sort of quality. There was still a whisper of razzle dazzle in the air, though it may have been attributable to the holiday season. It was late in the afternoon, or in the younger of the evening, and the streets were littered with hard-pressed New Yorkers, yabbering on their cell phones, sneaking paranoid glances at their wristwatches, and with hands ferreting about in their briefcases or purses.

And snow. There was lots of snow.

Almost everywhere was he greeted with dazzling Christmas lights, and the jolly sound of Christmas carols of the classic big band and jazz variety. Although it was only music, it enhanced the tangible change in atmosphere significantly (as though the complete shift in environment wasn't enough), in comparison to the mood Dean's routine oldies music inspired. Instead of hearing the usual AC/DC or Led Zeppelin, he became newly acquainted to the sounds of Frank Sinatra and Lena Horne. It was very classic and very elegant, and it was very New York.

The culture shock set his mind in a frenzy. Castiel stopped where he was, _wherever_ that was, to observe two signs. "5 Av" and "E 60 ST" they read, obviously referring to Fifth Avenue and East 60th Street respectively. A mental note of his whereabouts was made, though he esteemed the effort to be in vain, in view of how huge and hectic the city obviously was.

"What is this, the line for the men's room?" blustered a voice behind him. Before Castiel could even turn to address this person, the stranger roughly elbowed past him. "Move it, buddy!"

_Such incivility!_ Castiel opined in grave reprove, but resumed walking, albeit at a much slower pace than everyone else.

Suddenly, there was a unpleasant screeching of tires.

"Watch it, pretty boy!" snarled a motorist, who narrowly missed Castiel by mere inches. The angel was barely fazed. The car nearly crashed into another vehicle wherein the driver decided to proceed forward while the other was still stationary.

"GOTDAM MOTHER— where did you learn to drive? LA?"

"Hey pal, why don't you just slow down next time?"

"That's what your mom said to me last night!"

The other man proceeded to wind down his window, stick out his arm and gave his abuser another reason to be aggravated.

Castiel was only trying to reach what he deemed was the "friendlier" looking side of Fifth Avenue, which appeared to be along the junction of a very, very large park. When the angry interjection was thrown at him, he frowned in sore confusion. What did he do wrong? He appropriately used the crosswalk, and he wasn't – what was the demotic term? – "jay-walking".

It was when he reached the friendlier side of Fifth Avenue, finally, that he stopped to cast the unsparing traffic a studious gaze. Sigh. There were still facets of mankind that he could not yet fathom.

Halfway down Fifth, Castiel became aware that the crowd of pedestrians around him, along with the traffic, also seemed to be snowballing in size as he proceeded in the direction he was going. He assumed this meant that he was moving towards the heart of New York City. This city was going to get scarier before it got interesting.

Humans conceived of _the_ most bizarre names to title their buildings, and what went on within those premises', Castiel did not possess a broad enough imagination for. The city dimmed further until night was born as Castiel continued to pursue Fifth, passing buildings titled Trump Tower (Castiel knew what a tower was, but who or what a Trump was, he hadn't the clue), Berbdorf Goodman, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Gucci, Armani, Abercrombie & Fitch, Pucci (any relation to Gucci? he wondered), Zara, GAP, Tommy Hilfiger, Fendi, Rolex, NBA, Juicy Couture, and just when he thought the names couldn't push the boundaries of strangeness anymore than they have, he passed a building labelled "Banana Republic".

Not that he was deterred. In fact, he found human strangeness… compelling.

Obviously, by "Banana Republic", and having the opportunity to peer through windows, Castiel presumed that these were, for the most part, fashion boutiques, though he didn't want to know what kind of merchandise "Banana Republic" sold. As a shudder was suppressed, his hope for mankind soared. Quickly admiring the festive decorations strewn about Fifth, he pursued the "Banana Republic" street (whatever number street that was) instead of continuing down Fifth. It wasn't long before he could see the beginnings of what he had originally come here to see.

Time slowed. It was as though the sounds of traffic and the different Christmas carols from different buildings were suddenly muffled, smothered by the blanket of awe that had descended upon him. Everything but the rainbow-lit Christmas tree in front of the colossal Rockefeller Tower also seemed as though they had been blurred.

The phrase "truly God's work" came to mind, but Castiel knew in his figurative heart that this was a product of man. A product of his Father's product. The trees of Heaven should look like this. There should be _forests_ of these trees in Heaven!

His stride slowed as the tree moved to his central line of vision. Other trees in the immediate foreground, framing an ice-skating rink, were bound in white fairy lights, which only made the polychromatic lights of the Rockefeller tree in the background appear even more breathtaking. Castiel thought that having such diverse colors with little range from each other would make one big blur, but no, he could see that this wasn't the case. Each colored light was just as distinguishable and as brilliant as the next.

The gathering of people felt an intangible force draw them each aside, defining a path for the angel, who approached the enclosures of the Rockefeller Christmas Tree with refined dignity. He heard cameras clicking and saw the light of the flashes bouncing off the tree. He wondered if photographs did the tree any justice.

"Whaddaya think, kid? Good as last year?"

Castiel glanced to his left and spotted an old man with a trolley full of old cans gawking at the Christmas tree. He was obviously a New York City vagrant, with his scrawny frame and his frayed, timeworn clothes, but there was something about the warm, golden light the Christmas tree emanated that made this man – no, _everyone_ seem cordial. It was as though the light was a glow of tenderness.

"It is beautiful," Castiel answered, turning back to the tree. "Father created such magnificent things. I never knew you all possessed the creative potential alike to our Father."

"Don't think it was that easy," said a voice. To his right, he found a young woman with a ridiculous amount of eyeliner standing beside him. She looked like a raccoon with long red hair. She regarded him briefly before gazing back at the tree, just as he had. "Trees are cool enough on their own. We have Thomas Edison to thank for the light bulb and Michael Faraday for being the pioneer of the electrical age. Basically, without the lights, that tree would be an eye-sore, especially for the folks at NBC. Funny, considering that pesky little logo of the NBC peacock on the corner of my TV screen."

Castiel refrained a nod; it made sense but … _so? _When she looked to him to consider his lack of response, she seemed to read the confusion on his face.

"It's all science," the raccoon girl added with finality. This made Castiel scowl, though he wasn't quite sure whether he should be offended or not. What was she saying exactly? Was she invalidating the Lord's work by giving credence to _science_?

"We have our Father to thank for creating a path for those men, motivating them to act and make an impact on the world. He designed a route for them, a road to greatness, which they followed."

Four words into his little speech, and her brows had already puckered. "Our _father?"_

"Our Lord."

The raccoon girl narrowed her raccoon eyes. "I… _see_." She was humoring him.

"You do not believe?"

"It's a cross I'd rather not bear."

Oh, she was one of _those_ humans. "Where is your faith?" Castiel asked, frowning helplessly at her, as though he had been hurt personally. Technically, he was.

"I lost it," she replied swiftly, whipping back to him. Her airiness competed with Castiel's somewhat scandalized stare. "And boy, did I try retracing my steps. Never found it again. Then you know what dawned on me? I never had it to begin with, because there _is_ no —"

Castiel's eyes flashed aggressively. "Stop."

Immediately, her eyes wilted ruefully and her cheeks tinged red (redder, due to the cold). "Sorry, my bad. That was ill-mannered of me to say, and right in front of a freakin' Christmas tree. And a stranger. Who's obviously a believer."

"I don't appreciate being labeled," he said slowly, enunciating each word so she would wise up and take a hint to where he stood on the subject. He _was _an angel of the Lord, after all.

Now, she was almost as red as her hair. "Oh, jeez, I'm sorry!" She spun around from him suddenly, grumbling under her breath, "I should really stop talking to strangers…"

His discriminating ear easily heard her. "Perhaps you should," he muttered. He peered at her from the corners of his eyes and saw her look up at him, smiling bashfully. Despite himself, she amused him.

What a strange human. It was… compelling.

Castiel's gaze was carried back to the dazzling tree. It was much more amazing in real life than on some motel room television screen. Though, for reasons unknown, his gaze was pulled back to the raccoon girl, who, despite her beliefs (or lack thereof) she seemed just as in awe of the sight before her as everyone else.

"It _is_ beautiful," she murmured. Her blue eyes flitted ever so slightly, as though she intended to shower attention on every individual light bulb at least once. Then, she caught him looking. Before he even had a chance to be flustered, she hastily added with an air of haughtiness, "Just because it's science doesn't mean it isn't beautiful!"

Head tilt. "You do not see it as… art?"

Thoughtfully, she bit the inside of her lip, her eyes passing out of focus. "I used to."

"But then, you lost your faith."

She eyeballed him severely for a moment. "_No_… it's just the way the world has become. Once upon a time, in the sixteenth century, someone had the idea of decorating a tree with fruit, pretzels and paper flowers for the children of Bremen guild members to enjoy. That's a lovely idea, that's imagination, that's goodwill. _That_ –" she gestured the Christmas tree rather obnoxiously, with her arm at full length,"– to me, just says, "Okay, it's December, chuck some lights on the damn tree and let's get this over with"."

Castiel gave another once-over of the tree, before regarding her again. "It doesn't look effortless."

"No, but it's spiritless."

"How can you tell?"

"Because it's 2012," she intoned with a sigh, her smile sincere yet miserable, "and I'm a realist. That's just the way the world is. It's lost its heart."

"It's lost its _faith,"_ Castiel muttered, turning back to the tree but staring absently at the ground instead.

"If you're gonna keep bringing that up I'm not gonna talk to you," she said impishly, luring his attention once again. His fixed scowl at her faded when she grinned up at him. "I'm Audrey." She extended her hand to his.

"Castiel." He shook her hand, as humans did. Normally he would remove his hand instantly, but her firm grasp of his hand upon the announcement of his name prevented him from doing so.

"_Castiel?_ That's so Lord of the Rings! Castiel, Cas-ti-_el_ – Castiel, you make me hate my name."

"You have a nice name?" He didn't know why that statement came out sounding as uncertain as it did.

As her gloved hand released his, her eyes flickered with amusement. "_"Nice"_… that's the lowest rung on the ladder of complimentary adjectives."

Castiel opened his mouth, hoping a complimentary adjective of higher quality would fall out, but she stopped him with a giggle.

"But it's still a compliment!" She patted him fondly on the arm, and it occurred to him that she was one of those people who was never opposed to holding another's gaze, kind of like him. "Well, it's _nice_ to meet you, Castiel."

* * *

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	3. In God We Trust

Conversation didn't progress much after that. As he resumed staring reverently at the dazzling tree, she occasionally twisted around to take photographs of the scene around her. Then, without even a word or acknowledgment, she left him there alone.

This didn't bother him much. The girl, the raccoon girl – "Audrey" seemed _Nice_ (he was now rather self-conscious about using this word), but he had never interacted with a human being who was not aligned to some sort of supernatural (or, just plain _natural_ to him) investigation, let alone someone who didn't share the same beliefs as he. Yes, she was nice, but for the sake of who he was and who and what he represented, it was best that he never saw her again. Though, that could hardly be avoided when she returned later with a coffee cup in each hand. One was offered to him.

The angel merely blinked at it. "I don't consume coffee."

"It's not coffee." She gave the cup a little jiggle, as though making it seem more inviting.

Pause. "But it's a coffee cup."

"It's a cup, from a café that sells coffee, but it's hot chocolate." Her arm remained extended to him until he took the cup. She watched him make no further move.

She cocked an eyebrow. "Y'know, if you're not gonna drink that, you may as well give it back. There are others who could benefit from it. My stalker is just around the corner and I think he's dehydrated." When he finally took a rather unwilling sip, she rolled her eyes and sipped her own. He was pleased to find that it did not taste as foul as coffee, or beer. How the brothers could consume that stuff on a regular basis, he did not know.

There was something about the way she stood next to him, fidgeting and shifting her weight, that told Castiel she was feeling anxious – the sort of anxiety one endured when they were itching to say something, to declare something.

"I'm afraid I haven't been completely honest with you, Castiel," she spoke rigidly.

"You've lied to me?"

"I've… not told you something that is a part of your business."

He frowned, his sensibilities as an angel automatically rousing suspicion. "We just met."

Letting her head fall back a bit to regard him, her anxious eyes eased and her lips twitched into a small smile. "I know." It was startling as to how quickly she had warmed to him already. She held his gaze for a long moment, before it turned back to the tree. "I took a photo of you. With my camera."

The battle-ready instinct within him retreated as his suspicions faded. Also turning back to the tree, Castiel murmured, "I see."

Suddenly, he could feel her keenly gaping at him, and as much as he willed himself to ignore it, he couldn't. He turned reluctantly back to her and shot her a quizzical glance.

"You don't have a problem with that?" she inquired, awed. She didn't even give him a chance to answer, when she unleashed her rather animated tirade. "Because sometimes people are! I'll tell them that I've taken their photo and they'll be like, "How _dare_ you invade my privacy! Blah blah blah!" like I'm some sort of paparazzo or something!" Must she speak so loud? People were looking.

She threw her hands in the air, masterfully avoiding to spill any of her hot chocolate. "It's art!"

"Art." He immediately turned fully to address her. "But you don't have faith."

"Castiel –" her eyes shot upwards, half-rolling at him, "you don't need to invest any sort of belief in the divine to create art. See, I have faith, in myself, my imagination, and my creations, my art. And I _believe _–" she shot him a pointed look with a smirk, "– I took a really cool picture of you." She grinned proudly at him.

Castiel was intrigued. He had only ever seen a photograph of himself once.

"May I see it?"

Her eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. "Absolutely! It'll cost you though. I'm kidding. Because you said I have a Nice name, I'll develop you a copy and send it to you. Where do you live?"

Castiel shifted uncomfortably. Her smile fell.

"Ah, sorry. That was a bit too forward of me. Methinks we need to cover a bit more ground before we even reach Facebook level, y'know?" He didn't know, but he wasn't going to ask.

She seemed contented enough to loop her arm around his and gently tug him in a certain direction. "Let's walk to Central Park!"

Her arm had trapped his with hers, so he was forced to follow her step. Castiel saw no harm in conversing with a local, maybe even befriending this one. And what's this about a Central Park? He briefly wondered what other things there were to see in New York City. And were they all as stunning as the Rockefeller Christmas Tree?

After a long silence of walking, he heard her chuckle.

"You're new in town, aren't you?" she asked, grinning rascally up at him.

"How do you know?"

"Because we're walking the wrong way."

They stopped. They didn't even walk that far away from the tree, yet Castiel was still scrutinizing his surroundings in that boyishly innocent manner of his, as if he had just entered a completely different city. Castiel couldn't remember the last time he had been around so many high rises!

She laughed, and tugged his arm in what he presumed was the right direction, but she did not loop is arm around his this time. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were from another country. Is your accent real?"

"Uh —"

"Actually, you look foreign." Castiel didn't know where to direct his eyes when she leaned forward and angled her head to get a good glimpse of him. "Kinda European, maybe."

Castiel attempted to respond in kind. "You look … white?" he tried.

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. "My my, Castiel, that's politically incorrect! I'm – _we're_ caucasian." Castiel was beginning to feel very stupid indeed. "But in a way, you're correct. My family's heritage traces back to England. Home of the original white folk!"

"You're English," he concluded, watching with bemusement as she went out of her way to step only on the white lines of the crosswalk they were currently walking over.

"Do I sound English?" She smirked and gave him a quick pointed stare, before focussing again on where her feet landed. "I'm American."

There was something bleak in her tone that informed him that this was something about herself she did not enjoy acknowledging.

"You sound disappointed?" he observed, sounding more like a statement, as he angled his head to catch her reaction.

Her mouth twisted into somewhat of a melancholy smile. "Mm. These days, no one wants to be who they really are."

"You don't wish to be an American?"

He moved to grab her when she suddenly slipped on some ice, but she caught herself and struck a brief "I meant to do that" pose. It was quickly followed by her shooting him a scandalized look.

"Don't say that kind of thing out loud! Especially in New York! I could be watched for all I know! I…" She resumed walking unhurriedly, as her eyes wavered, seemingly searching for the right words as though they were on the ground. "It's not that I'm unpatriotic, it's just, these days, no one wants to be labelled as an American, or English, or Indonesian, or Spanish, or Chinese —"

"There is nothing wrong with —"

"I know! But there's so much… social paranoia these days. I'm aware of it, everyone's aware of it, but we can't help it. We live in fear. No one wants to be labelled because no one wants to be generalized, and effectively attacked –" she fixed him with a look, eyes instantly hard and serious, "– however way you wish to interpret the word "attacked"."

The meaningful look evoked a realization in him. Fear? Attacked? New York? He knew exactly what she was referring to.

"The Y2K bug may have been a bunch of jive, but, I don't know Castiel, there's something weird about this new millennium. Everything just seems so bad, and nothing seems to be improving."

He stared at her.

"What?"

"You are very disillusioned," he said.

She shrugged. "Could you blame me?" After a pause, she narrowed her eyes at him. "You don't think there's something wrong?"

Castiel knew that everything that happened was God's will, and always will be, whether he or anyone else liked it or not. Now, how does one say that to a non-believing human girl?

"I believe everything happens for a reason."

"So, 9/11? Hurricane Katrina? The Boxing Day tsunami? The recession? The Virginia Tech massacre? The Beslan massacre? Global warming? – if you believe that one. Swine flu? The Haiti earthquake? 2009, the year of celebrity deaths? 2010, the year of many, many more deaths? _(At this, Castiel's eyes darted around awkwardly at her obscure reference to the Apocalypse__)_ The 2011 Australian floods? The Tucson shooting? The Rio mudslides? You think there's a happy ending to all of this?" she grilled. She wasn't angry, she was just genuinely keen on the topic.

"I never said things happen ultimately for a good reason," Castiel was quick to reply, perhaps a little defensively.

"So, by default, it's a bad reason? Huh. Maybe the 2012 theory is true."

"Have faith," he said, the purposeful glint in his eye returning; the type of look once reserved only for Sam and Dean.

The moment "faith" was spoken, as he expected, she shot him a dry, knowing look, as though questioning his ulterior motives.

"Things will improve," he continued, holding her gaze and making sure not to falter. _"Trust_ me."

Her eyes appraised him with a mixture of admiration and curiosity. "A guy who wants to change the world for the better…" Suddenly, she offered him a rueful grin. "You _really_ don't belong in New York!"

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	4. Walking in a Winter Wonderland

Castiel recognized Central Park instantly – it was that park he had passed when he crossed over to the "friendlier" side of Fifth Avenue earlier that day. From what he could see, it was literally a winter wonderland in the middle of New York, and he was eager to pay it a visit. Central Park struck him as the sort of environment he would be more partial to: peaceful, still, graceful in appearance … at least in comparison with the garish, frenzied heart of the city. Though this was merely the impression he got from standing atop the steps which led into the park.

Assuming that she would be the one to beckon him to progress ahead, he turned to Audrey expectantly. He found that she had already left his side. Castiel spun around and eventually, spotted her around the corner at a small hotdog vendor. She smiled brightly at him when he found her.

"I'm hungry. Do you eat?"

No. "I… have already eaten."

Her eyes narrowed, as if she had realized something. "Ah, that explains it. And here I thought you didn't want that hot chocolate because it had the devil's temperature."

She seemed to possess Dean's sharp sense of humor, but there was something different about it that Castiel couldn't pinpoint. Was it her good-natured tone, as opposed to Dean's condescending one? Was it the warm smile she offered him whenever she did so, as if she were apologizing in unison with her sarcasm? Was it the lack of words such as "dude", "douche" or "mojo" being secured somewhere in the sentence?

He must have appeared visibly flummoxed, as her smile widened for a moment before she turned back to the vendor.

Once her back was turned, he indulged himself in a careful study of her appearance, to put it in innocuous terms. Any other man would have classed what Castiel was doing as "checking out a girl".

From the moment she appeared beside him at Rockefeller Center, the immediate astonishment he had from the sight of her rather eccentric choice of clothing was overcome by the conversation that had followed. But now that he had the chance to return to that reverie, he couldn't help but raise his eyebrows in amazement.

She dressed like – what was her name? Madonna? Cyndi Lauper? In the eighties? Only with more layers due to winter conditions. She stood out like peacock in a desert with her long fire engine red hair, raccoon eyes and choice of attire. It must have been a bizarre spectacle for bystanders, seeing the two of them together.

Before he knew it, she was standing right in front of him, sweeping a hotdog right under his nose.

"Disgusting, isn't it?" she grinned, proceeding towards the steps that led into the park.

It didn't smell any different from the types of food Dean and Sam often consumed. Although he had been offered on several occasions, he graciously refused every time.

"I wouldn't know," he replied, following her. As she took a very unladylike bite of it, he frowned. "Why are you eating it then?"

"Becaushhe i' tasteshh good," she responded with a mouthful.

"Isn't it bad for your body?"

Audrey shrugged as she swallowed before answering. "I take the photos, I'm not the model." Another bite.

"You could be," Castiel murmured absentmindedly.

He continued walking, but stopped when he felt the lack of her presence at his side. He turned around and saw that she hadn't moved, and although her mouth was full, she wasn't chewing. She regarded him with astonished eyes.

"What's wrong?"

She swallowed, and hurried over to him. "That was a really nice thing to say, Castiel!"

He smirked a little. "Nice?"

She glared playfully at him. "Hey! Okay, I meant it was a really _sweet_ thing to say."

"What was?"

"You implied I look like a model?" Her grin vanished and she suddenly looked quite paranoid. "Unless I horribly misinterpreted that and I'm making this conversation embarrassing for the both of us?"

"No, that is what I implied."

"Well…" Castiel frowned. Why was she suddenly averting his gaze and grinning madly? "That was sweet, Castiel. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

They walked in silence as she ate. Occasionally, she waved and said "Hi!" to people who clearly didn't know her as well as he assumed she knew them. She eventually did end up engaging in an actual conversation with someone who either knew her, or was easygoing enough to go along with it. The old man she was having a rather animated exchange with looked as if he practically _lived_ in Central Park. If he did, Castiel couldn't blame him. His first impression was an accurate impression; it truly was a winter wonderland in Central Park.

Castiel gazed at the half-frozen pond that neighbored the path they were walking on; he could see a somewhat misty reflection of the city, mainly the Plaza Hotel. The scenery was gorgeous. He wondered if, within the past few years, he had come across some beautiful sites of the United States, but had been too occupied at the time with the Apocalypse, or another case, to even take notice and enjoy it.

He was fond of the brothers, and he supposed he loved them, but it felt so liberating to be away from them. Not just away from them, but away from everything that came with being near a Winchester. Supernatural cases, cheap motel rooms, miserable diners, the Impala, Dean's oldies rock music, the brothers' colloquialisms, and lots of guns and lots of blood. Castiel didn't necessarily have a problem with it, but as an angel, he was accustomed to being alone and in constant travel. One minute he could be in Jerusalem, the next he could be in Tokyo. Being with the Winchesters meant being tethered to a certain lifestyle, a routine.

Did he enjoy change? Well, he felt _used to_ change, but he wasn't quite sure if he had crossed the line into enjoyment. He was quite content with where he was now: in dazzling New York City, in the tranquil Central Park, with an interesting human girl … who was now frowning pensively at him. The old man she had been talking to had already left.

"Is there something wrong?" he asked.

She continued to frown at him with a mixture of confusion and concern as she pulled her gloves back on. Finally, she spoke. "You look so awkward." She sounded uncertain, like it was a question. "Do you have a… reason for being here? In New York? Like a meeting or something?"

"No." Castiel realized that, for a while, he just wanted to be _without_ reason.

Her shoulders deflated as she seemed to realize something. "Oh. Your family's here, aren't they?"

"I have no family…" Here. HERE. "— uh, here."

"Oh? So … um, vacation?"

"… yes."

"How long?"

"As long as I want?"

She raised her eyebrows, seemingly impressed. "Ooh, he's got the pow-ah!" she sang. Castiel clearly wasn't familiar with the song. "I should have known!"

"How? Why?"

"I don't know, look at you!" She gestured his appearance in an up-down motion. "You look like a busy man, a man with a purpose?" Castiel froze when she rose to her toes and leaned into him to scrutinize his features. "Actually, you look kinda tired – are you jetlagged or something? When was the last time you slept?"

How about never? "… a while."

"Tsk, poor thing," she said, resting back onto the soles of her feet. "You needed this vacation. Well, _I_ like coming here at night, and I'm sure you will too."

"It is nice at night," he observed with a monotone, despite his genuine amazement of the scenery around him.

"Everything's nice to you, Castiel."

"I suppose."

Silence.

Her stride began to slow until she stopped completely. He turned to her. "What's wrong?"

Her eyes regarded him suspiciously for a moment, and it bothered him. Such a lively girl shouldn't look so vulnerable, so something was obviously wrong.

She marched right up to him suddenly. "Forgive me, Castiel, if you're innocent, but as a woman of the twenty-first century, I am obligated to do this."

Before he could even tilt his head with confusion in that way he did, she began groping around through the pockets of his trench coat and his pants. Coherent judgment would have told Castiel that she was obviously on the search for something, but male sensibility provoked other thoughts to frolic about in his mind and metaphorically dangle a mouse in front of the angel's rather exhausted saintliness.

"I, uh – what are you—?"

She frowned when she stopped and allowed him his personal space again, and Castiel wouldn't even admit to himself in his mind that he was little disappointed when she did. He proceeded to do an admirable job of quickly regaining his composure.

"Hmmm."

"Looking for something?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Sorry 'bout that, Castiel," she said sheepishly. She began to hug her arms modestly. "I'm just taking precautions. I don't want to fall for a guy's charms and then have them go all Patrick Bateman on me."

"Who's Patrick Bateman?" His eyes flared. "Did he hurt you?"

"No, but he hurt a lot of women." Castiel looked like he was about to smite someone. She caught his expression, and began to smile wryly. "And he's a fictional character. I watch a lot movies, read a lot of books…" She trailed off as she continued to walk. Castiel followed.

"Do you do that to all the men you meet?"

It was a serious question, and her burst of laughter startled him. "Only the ones that seem too good to be true."

Did she just compliment him? "Um… thank you?"

She scoffed good-naturedly. "Well _that_ was an uncertain sign of gratitude if I ever heard one!"

"My apologies –"

"No no no, it's okay!"

"I am not used to being… complimented."

She immediately appeared crestfallen on his behalf. "For real? Are you _that_ unappreciated at work?"

"It's a thankless job." Understatement of the universe.

"Oh God, no wonder you're on vacation!" She stopped in front of him and gripped his arms, forcing him to look at her in the eyes. "Well, when you go back to work, tell 'em that Audrey said that you're the best at... whatever it is that you do!"

A natural smile formed on Castiel's lips. "I will."

* * *

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	5. 21st Century Kid

It was nearing midnight and Castiel had spent more time with Audrey than he had anticipated. Nevertheless, the time wasn't entirely spent immersed in conversation. In fact, they probably endured more stretches of silence than that of exchanged words. He wondered if she even had the ability to acknowledge such awkwardness caused by their severe absence of dialogue, seeing as how she seemed to be free of all inhibitions – a trait of hers he was quick to envy. He figured no, since she instead occupied herself with taking more photographs around her whenever words were not spoken between them, so she was not as mindful of it as he was.

Castiel could have sworn she took more photographs of him when he was not looking; it was difficult to miss, considering she had set the flash on. He now understood why some people found her conduct to be meddlesome.

"You're very photogenic, actually. I'm not the only one here who could be a model," she had said to him, when he had caught her taking another photograph of him. Was "photogenic" the technical term for good-looking? He hoped so, because he had replied with a earnest reply of thanks.

Eventually, they found themselves loitering on the Gapstow Bridge, with her leaning forward against the solid barriers and staring absentmindedly into the half-frozen pond, and with him leaning back against it to revel in the view of the city that winked a sleepless eye. It was then that they spoke again.

"What do you see?" she asked inattentively.

His eyes drifted upwards to the New York night sky. "Heaven," he answered. He had never been able to look above and _not_ think about it.

He heard her chuckle softly, and murmur in an amused note, "Trust you."

She turned around and mirrored him, by looking up at the sky. After a long moment, she spoke again. "I see space. A big, big space. A void."

Castiel watched her while she spoke, and she didn't appear outwardly bothered by her rather bleak observations. She had said it with such composed conviction that it drew a sigh out of him.

His sigh didn't go without notice, and she immediately glowered playfully at him. "Don't you –" she released a melodramatic imitation of his sigh, "– me!"

He stared at her hard. "Your sense of disillusionment bothers me."

"Well I wasn't finished yet!" She gestured the sky with a theatrical flourish. "I see a void, with lots of _glitter_ … a cheese ball, and an orange that only shows itself between the hours of 6AM and 6PM."

"And what does that make the Earth?" he asked amusedly, prolonging the metaphor.

Her puckered lips twisted around in thought. "Hm. Crumbs of a buffet smushed into one?" Delighted by her metaphor, she smirked at him. "That's quite poetic, isn't it?"

She looked away before he had a chance to even think of a response. Instead, they both gazed at the stunning panorama of the lively metropolis before them. It was like staring into another world. Central Park was like a chunk stolen right out of an old, traditional Christmas tale slammed smack in the middle of Las Vegas' less trampish older sister: the land of glaring, shameless advertising.

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"I'm tired," she said all of a sudden, startling Castiel out of his bizarre reverie.

"You should rest."

"Yeah," she responded vacantly, though not really listening. "I should get those photos developed by tomorrow afternoon."

"I don't need you to rush —"

"No, no!" she perked suddenly, as though her previous words were actually her musing aloud. "I need to get these _other_ photos developed and presented to someone I work for." She began to frown, "Or I like to think I work for."

"You don't have a job?"

The thought of that being the case surprised Castiel. She dressed _eccentrically_, but she didn't dress _homeless_. She just looked as if she had fallen through several floors of designer outlets exhibiting their Winter collection (and survived) and walked out like that.

She seemed to dither internally for a long time before answering. "Creating art in general doesn't really qualify as a job, because we're not guaranteed any payment; there's no ongoing financial support. You can't get fired from being an artist, y'know?"

"You're a photographer," he reminded.

"It all falls under the same umbrella," she briskly concluded with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Photographers, musicians, filmmakers, painters, sculptors, fashion designers, what have you. If artists all stop creating one day, that's it, no money. No living. And there are so many of us, it gets competitive. Hence why I haven't secured a spot in a publishing agency, or a media production office. I'm just so sick of freelancing. I want to be under permanent contract."

Castiel nearly went cross-eyed. He didn't know what the hell she was talking about. He had no idea that the human realm of careers was so complicated. Unfortunately, it was obvious to Castiel that she expected the subsequent silence to be broken by him.

"Um," he hesitantly began, "I am sure your work is very good?"

She smiled at his apparent awkwardness. "You haven't even seen one photo of mine yet, Castiel. But, irregardless, sometimes good isn't good enough." She smiled tightly but her eyes were serious. "That's show business for you. It's full of corruption and prejudice, and sometimes people, whose work are of a less stellar standard, will get their foot in the door before the more talented ones."

"How is that possible?"

"Bribery? Extortion? Relations – of the sexual kind? General bias? You name it."

She spoke of it as if she knew it all too well. "… are you perhaps speaking from experience?"

"No." Her head fell back and she smiled miserably at him. "But I have a feeling it will happen to me one day. It's common, and I'm braced."

There was that world-weary attitude again!

"You are cynical," he concluded with a rather discouraged sigh.

"I am _right,"_ she amended sharply. "Unfortunately."

Castiel was in no position to contradict her, since there were still certain aspects of humanity he hadn't yet analyzed, this being one. Was everything about being human always so complex? Careers, relationships, having different tastes, or just being either male or female? This is why he had been at his wit's end as to why Anna tore out her grace and fell. There was so much difficulty in being human; though, Castiel assumed there must have been some sort of antithesis.

"Are you secure in your profession, Castiel?"

His eyes widened before he could stop himself. She regarded him with eyes wide with curiosity, and he couldn't help but stare back in the same way.

"It depends on what you mean by secure," he carefully answered, without breaking their arbitrary blue-on-blue staring contest. "If you mean the longevity I could achieve in my position, given that I follow orders, then yes, I am secure."

She frowned a little. "Do you enjoy what you do?"

Castiel visibly blanked, and he knew it was noticeable. He had never asked himself this question because it would raise doubt: a feeling that should forever be foreign to something as supposedly absolute and unadulterated as a messenger of God. But now that someone else had asked him that question, it had, inevitably, spawned a million more that couldn't be answered without reverting to his Brooding Angel™ mode that often lasted several hours.

Has he ever enjoyed anything? _Can_ he enjoy anything? Was it currently a dormant feeling that could potentially emerge if provoked? Will he handle himself differently as an angel if he realized that he had never enjoyed being an angel?

Enjoyment: _there_ was that antithesis he knew nothing about.

He came to a disturbing conclusion.

"It's all I know."

She seemed visibly disheartened by his answer as he was.

"You live to work," she observed with a note of regret. There was a hint of a pitying smile as she reached out and stroked the side of his arm. "Castiel, that's not what you're supposed to do, that's not how you're supposed to live. You're supposed to _work_ to _live_," she emphasized with a few hand gestures.

The thing was, Castiel wasn't even alive, technically.

"I prefer security," he said.

Her smile tugged to one side as her eyes regarded him with sympathy. "I guess you're the sensible one out the two of us."

That's what angels were, weren't they? Sensible, unconditional, objective, logical. Castiel figured he constituted a rather corrupted angel, but a very naive human being.

All of a sudden, she threw her head back as she yawned. "And I would be the tired one!" she laughed.

Castiel nearly sighed with relief, as he felt the tension of the previous conversation disappear.

"You don't have to stay on account of me."

"Wasn't gonna. Listen, I'll go back to the Tree at Rockefeller Center tomorrow night –" Upon noticing his blank expression, she added, "– the big spiritless Christmas tree we were at before – and I'll give you a reprint of the photo, okay?" He was just in the process of tilting his head again when she grinned and patted him fondly on the arm. "Great! I better go before the taxis stop doing their rounds around the Park. It was great meeting you Castiel. Castiel, God, I love that name!"

"Goodnight," he bid, offering her a small smile.

"'night!" She paused from turning around and gleefully added, "And Merry Christmas!"

It didn't seem like the gentlemanly thing to do to just let her walk off on her own at this hour, even though Central Park seemed as menacing as a clean Sam Winchester.

"Audrey," he called out, walking briskly to reach her.

There was a glint of flattery in her eye, otherwise confusion, as she watched him recover his post by her side.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't think you should walk by yourself."

She smirked and looped her arm around his again. "Why Castiel, anyone would think you were worried about me!"

Well…

"Am I being transparent?" he asked, paranoid. She chuckled.

"You are _unreal_, Castiel. If you're not Patrick Bateman, who are you? Don't tell me – you're the Doctor."

"Doctor who?"

He had no idea why she laughed out loud at his response, but he had to admit, he'd be lying if he said didn't enjoy it.

* * *

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	6. Ground Zero

_This chapter is about **9/11**, so do not read it if this kind of thing upsets you. You'll be missing nothing relevant to the plot, since there is no plot, lol._

* * *

"Hang on," Dean interrupted, his arm shooting up and resembling something reminiscent of the Hitler salute, "you've only known her for a _day?_ Not even a day, like a few hours?"

"I haven't finished my recount yet," Castiel said, eying Dean's suspiciously Nazi arm and then lowering it for him with a masterly wave of his hand from where he was seated. "I believe the next time I encountered her, the incident didn't come to pass as smoothly."

"What did you do?" he heard Sam ask.

He bristled at this question. The affronted angel directed a frown at Sam, who stared cluelessly at him in return. Why was everyone making him feel quite stupid lately?

"What compels you to immediately assume that _I_ did something wrong?"

"Dude, come on," came a scoff from Dean's direction, snaring Castiel's attention once more. Dean stood up and crossed over to the mini-bar. "If we looked up "socially awkward" in the dictionary, there would be a picture of you with your classic _"I don't friggin' know what's going on"_ face."

At that, Castiel blinked.

"There it is!" Dean grinned, pointing to the angel's face, before burying his head in the mini-bar.

"Well, what happened?" Sam guided them back to their original discussion. "It couldn't have been that bad."

"Sammy, it's Castiel. The _angel,_" they heard Dean say, his voice slightly resonating as his head was still buried in the mini-bar. "He has the capability to do anything with _superhuman_ power. Including screwing up things of massive proportions."

Both Sam and Castiel held a silent agreement with their eyes to ignore the elder Winchester.

"I saw her again the following night -"

"Did you stay in New York during the day?"

Castiel nodded. "Yes, I stayed."

"What did you do? Did you stalk her?" Dean interrogated, appearing out of nowhere, beer in hand. "Is that why she was mad?"

Castiel's eyes shot upward in annoyance. _"No._ During the day, I went to ground zero."

The comical aspect of their conversation vanished in an instant, as the room suddenly plunged into a prickly silence. Castiel knew that he had thrown an elephant into the room, and it obviously had to be addressed to end the ever present hum of awkwardness he had sparked. He glanced to and from each brother, trying to deduce their expressions.

"Oh," was all Dean could eventually muster, while Sam directed a somber gaze elsewhere.

The silence pressed on, the tension as apparent as a sore thumb, though for a moment, it looked as if none of them were going to address it further. Castiel had never really introduced typical concerns of the six o'clock news into their conversations. He had never sat down with the brothers and mentioned the momentous events of today, or in history, that had nothing to do with the supernatural or the divine and everything to do with the human condition itself.

Technically, as an angel, it was none of his business. The way he saw it, terrorism was a product of mankind, and they had no one to blame but themselves.

Castiel's eyes narrowed. He stood from his seat. At this move and under his tangible gaze that held some obvious questioning (that would no doubt be conveyed verbally any second now), the brothers squirmed uneasily, and it did not go unnoticed.

"Did this affect you? Did the events of 9/11 affect you?"

"No," came Dean's brisk answer. Unable to rival Castiel's impenetrable stare with his own, he looked away. "Not personally. As a human being, and as an American citizen, yes."

The angel looked to Sam for further elaboration, and all he received was a sober nod in agreement.

They relapsed into another silence; this time, the room held less tension and more of Castiel's palpable curiosity on the sensitive subject.

"It's strange, thinking about all those things," Sam went on, hooking all attention as he broke the silence. Though he seemed to be more vocalizing his thoughts rather than addressing the two of them, he continued, "We're so busy trying to save the world from demons and other beings, we tend to forget that the world is killing itself at its own hand." He chuckled humorlessly. "I always forget that there's a war in Iraq. Humans killing other humans, it's nuts."

Castiel strove to see it from the average human's point of view; of course, humans killing other humans would seem so commonplace in comparison to demons killing humans, or vengeful spirits killing humans, etcetera. That was a reality that they would never know of.

"I'd just graduated from high school when it happened," Sam murmured pensively. Dean was clearly having none of this dramatic change of atmosphere any longer.

"I try not to think about it," he interjected in a harsh tone. "It discourages me from doing my job. I get doubtful. I start to think, "They don't deserve to be saved. Why bother?"" He visibly stopped himself right there, as if to suppress a rant that was a long time coming. Dean's exasperated eyes, which seemed to waver madly around the room for a moment, stopped on Castiel. "Come to think of it, it should discourage _you_ too, as a heavenly messenger and whatnot."

"The events of 9/11 do not concern me."

Oh. That really didn't sound too good.

When two pairs of eyes shot at him immediately, Castiel knew that he was right to feel regretful over his choice of words. Both brothers' gazes sharpened to a dangerous point that seemed to abrade the angel's composure, just by staring at him. Perhaps that hadn't been the most considerate thing to say…

"I meant to say," Castiel quickly managed, briefly shutting his eyes with a wince, "the events of 9/11 _didn't_ concern me … until I visited the site of destruction —"

"No, wait a minute –" He trusted Dean not to let it go; Castiel had watched him advance on him while he had rephrased his words. "– you mean to tell me that until you visited that place, you didn't give a _rat's ass _about 9/11?"

Sam merely appraised him with eyes similar to Dean's, yet somehow held more tolerance.

Castiel restrained his regret from manifesting, and held his earnest composure, raising his chin just a fraction as though to remind them both of what he was. "You've known me for a while now, Dean. You shouldn't be surprised about where my sympathies do and do not lie. Let me explain."

* * *

Castiel knew something very bad had happened on September 11, 2001, but his being in heaven and detachment from earth denied him any chance of knowing specifics. Back then, he didn't really care. People ascended to Heaven everyday, sometimes in crowds. On that date, a group of almost two – no, three thousand former human lives appeared at Heaven's proverbial gates, and Castiel barely bat an eye. He had seen more in the past. World War II? The 1556 Shaanxi earthquake? The 1931 China floods? The Bengal famine of 1770? Now those were great losses.

The Castiel of 2012, who was now standing at the borders of Ground Zero, wondered how he could have been so heartless. Literally speaking, he had no heart to call his own, but he wondered, as an angel of God, where his compassion for humanity had gone. Loitering around on earth had certainly rekindled those sentiments.

Closing his eyes, he spoke a silent prayer for those people. He still did not know exactly what happened, only that there used to be two very large towers here, but nonetheless, he prayed for them.

"Lost someone here, pal?"

His eyes flew open, and spotted a man of about his vessel's age standing next to him with his hands in his pockets. He looked tired, and slightly miserable, but all in all approachable. The man seemed to derive something from Castiel's still expression as he offered him what appeared to be a tight, sympathetic smile, and turned his head to observe the site.

"I know how you feel," he murmured with an exhausted sigh. He had a strong regional accent; perhaps from Boston. "The past … it haunts you. You think if you got to the root of things – say, coming to the scene of whatever incident had transpired – you think it goes away, like you get closure or something."

He then gave Castiel a hard, significant look, as if trying to highlight a commonality between them. "It doesn't do anything. Doesn't alleviate the pain, doesn't put the mind at rest. If anything, it stirs those memories even more. We're masochists, in a way. Having to remember is the most painful thing in the world, but we want to. We want to, but we _don't_ want to."

"You feel that it's your responsibility to remember." Castiel was unsure of his words, but it came out as a statement.

The man's mouth twitched into a small smile. "Yeah! You got it, man. It's painful for us and we don't _have_ to remember … but we do. Running away from the pain only makes it hurt more when it catches up with you, so what's the point in running? We remember because we love them."

He held Castiel's gaze for a few more moments, as though to let that last statement linger, before looking away mournfully.

"I lost my sister here," he heard the man murmur. He was staring straight ahead, as though he had given up trying to find one place in the scene to fix his attention to. "I still love her. I didn't know anyone else who was a victim here, but even though they're all strangers to me, I _love_ them. "

Castiel frowned. "Why?"

The man turned to Castiel and said, "All you need is love." He smiled gently at Castiel's expression of muted interest. "Merry Christmas," he bid with a gracious nod, before shuffling away with his hands in his pockets.

Pain must have been a complicated thing, but Castiel could only observe from the sidelines. He knew that there were two kinds of pain: physical pain and emotional pain. He was vaguely familiar with the former, but as a being who could heal itself, physical pain had always been nothing more than just a brief hindrance.

The latter kind of pain, he hadn't quite experienced just yet. Confusion and frustration were emotions that he was rapidly becoming familiar with, and that was "painful" enough as it is. But apparently, these emotions didn't hold a candle to "heartbreak" and "mourning". The angel realized that emotional pain must have been powerful, as it was the only thing that could make a Winchester brother cry.

* * *

The room fell back into its usual air of awkwardness (events of which seemed to transpire with alarming regularity whenever Castiel was around) as the figurative clouds of his flashback faded from the foreground. He watched as Dean and Sam exchanged glances in their usual manner, with Dean looking stark incredulous as Sam shrugged, the gears evidently turning in his head.

"We don't – we don't cry a lot, do we?" Dean's chuckle bounced with paranoia. The sudden puffing of his chest, the elaborate knitting of brows that followed, and his seemingly endless and rather frantic gulp of beer were the kind of subtle movements that Castiel inwardly noted. Manhoods had obviously been threatened.

"Exactly my point," Castiel responded, nodding, "emotional pain must be so strong, so _painful_, to make the both of you cry."

The brothers – more Dean than Sam – seemed uncomfortable with the tiny, three letter word, though he only vaguely sensed their discomfort before his thoughts turned inward. His own thoughts happened to be quite unfathomable, so much to make Castiel's eyes twitch into a rather pained scowl at the carpet (yes, carpet! This motel had an extra half star next to its name!). He began to pace. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he believed that physical movement would stimulate some sort of conclusion.

"I have… never … _experienced_ … emotional pain," Castiel managed with some difficulty. Remembering _frustration_ and _impatience_, he then added, "At least, not to any extremities."

"Heh, you scared?"

Despite Dean's teasing tone, Castiel regarded him with the utmost sobriety, and it was his intense yet eternally cryptic gaze – tinged with the slightest shade of distress – that wiped the look of amusement right off of the Winchester's face.

"It is foreign ground," he said simply. He blinked once, and his look of intensity fell. "Perhaps I am." He frowned, as if, upon reflection, he was ashamed of admitting this. He had pretty much acknowledged this vulnerability and embraced it. His dismal look vanished as curiosity crossed his features. "How do you _avoid_ emotional pain?"

"No," Dean said, shaking his head dismissively as he set down his beer bottle – a simple move that informed him that Dean was ready to tackle the conversation with full attention. "No no no, this is the thing: you can't go through life without enduring it."

Castiel frowned in bemusement and canted his head to one side, his eyes flickering with confusion – basically, his usual reaction to everything.

"Why not? Would it not make your whole existence on earth more pleasant?"

"If there's no suffering, then there's no joy, there's just … white noise," Sam explained. His shrug was assured yet rueful when Castiel regarded him dubiously. "A middle ground with no ups or downs. That's not living, that's just existing."

The angel nodded as he allowed himself a moment to absorb these observations. "So… to live, one must seek emotional pain."

"Of course not!" Dean quickly shot in. Castiel saw that he had reclaimed his spot on the bed and was casually crossing one leg over the other. "You have to find what makes you happy. And sometimes, because life's a bitch, it throws you lemons and you have to deal with it."

Castiel then faced a very disturbing mental image of himself walking down a seemingly harmless suburban street and then suddenly being flattened by a mountain of lemons.

"How do lemons hold any import to your existence?"

A wry smile emerged on Dean's face that seemed to translate to _"Wellll,_ I should have seen _that_ one coming,", also explaining why Castiel wasn't greeted with another roll of his eyes.

"I mean, to quote a Stones song – you can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you might find you get what you need."

There was a climactic pause.

"… lemons?"

"Wha — no!"

Castiel glowered determinedly. He could almost feel Sam's sympathetic smirk from across the room and he knew Dean well enough to know that he was rolling his eyes right now.

He tried again. "Emotional pain helps one … gain?" He immediately did not know whether or not to acknowledge his accidental rhyme.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, gain – knowledge, experience, wisdom, understanding."

"What if one already has all these properties?"

Dean shared a bleak look with his brother, before responding, "_No one_ does. Life is about learning."

There was another pause as the brothers allowed the angel to digest everything.

"An ongoing discovery of our own ignorance," Castiel concluded distantly.

He knew, in the back of his mind, that Dean was now swapping disturbed glances with his brother. "Yeah… that – that's _one_ way to put it."

"Ignorance…"

"So!" Dean piped with a grin, his usual levity reviving, and captured all attention with a clap of his hands. "Back to this girl, what did you do to piss her off?"

At this, Castiel turned his gaze aside, and he wasn't quite sure why. Was it normal to feel uncomfortable when talking about women? Especially when Dean Winchester was one of the people he was conversing with – the notorious heartbreaker. He kissed the girls and made them cry. Castiel then recalled Chastity … then decided that that very same phrase could apply to himself, too.

"I may have … insulted her ignorance."

"About what?"

Castiel looked up sheepishly.

"… Oh God."

"Yes, about God."

* * *

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	7. Oh, For the Love of God

Snowflakes were beautiful. And unselfish. They descended at a slow enough rate for one to admire them briefly before they became indistinguishable with the rest that blanketed the ground. Castiel was spellbound by them as he sat composedly in the seating area residing near the Rockefeller Christmas Tree.

Snow enhanced the beauty of everything. He glanced over at the Tree; it looked was even more breathtaking tonight. He looked forward and in the distance, there was an elderly couple, smiling and embracing each other fondly. It was a heartwarming sight. And the delicate, cascading snowflakes only heightened the sensations these images inspired.

He looked over to his right and saw –

"DADDY I WANT HOT CHOCOLATE RIGHT! NOW! NOooOoOOoW!"

Well ... snow made that domestic spectacle appear a lot less unpleasant. He then gazed to his left and saw – well, there she was, finally.

Across the road, the fiery haired raccoon girl proceeded towards him. Something was happening; it was as if his world suddenly centered on her as she seemed to stride towards him in slow motion. A song about body language by some old band called "Queen" played out of nowhere, accompanying the mesmerizing yet highly incongruous scene playing before him. Castiel very much resembled himself from that stint in the "den of iniquity" with Dean, only with less horror and instead, perhaps a trace of desire, though that was already more than he would like to acknowledge. He cleared his throat uneasily.

The scene seemed to climax as she began to flourish her long hair, like one would usually do in a hair product commercial on television, but the illusion was shattered when a cyclist suddenly pedaled right into her.

"Oh," was all that fell from Castiel's lips before he rose to his feet and strode over to Audrey, who was already berating the cyclist.

"You're not even on the right side of the road, you schmuck!" she raved. "Don't you know you're supposed to ride _against _traffic?"

"Dah-I-I-I'm s-sorry, m-ma'am," spluttered the young cyclist, nodding so madly he appeared to be having a seizure.

There was a pause as she huffed, calming herself, and then smiled at the cyclist in a way that could be described as either sweet or menacing. Or both. "Puh-puh-please be more careful next time, would you?"

The cyclist continued to nod frantically as he scooped up his fallen bicycle into his arms and ran like hell. Audrey then spun neatly at her heels to Castiel, and flashed him a pageant smile.

"Hi!" she greeted with remarkable cheeriness.

He eyed her with a mixture of amusement and bewilderment in regards to the scene that had just transpired before him, but quickly blinked out of that gaze when she greeted him.

"Are you all right?" he promptly asked.

"I'm fine," she answered just as promptly. She examined the scene around them in curious observation, just as Castiel did earlier. "It's snowing!"

"So I've noticed."

He hadn't even followed her gaze - he simply stared at her. The snow was doing it again! Making things all ... pretty. Prettier. Though, it was unnerving when the subject was a human he was communicating with because soon enough, she was going to catch him staring. _Ogling_ was probably a more fitting word. The Tree could never judge him for doing so, the elderly couple only had eyes for each other, and the screaming little girl was blinded with determination to acquire a hot chocolate and the father of said girl was probably expecting to garner a few stares.

But that was besides the point since, as predicted, she caught his stare. She merely smiled, and something told him (and reassured him) that she was very much oblivious to the fact that he had been staring the entire time. She then looped her arm around his and tugged him in a certain direction; Castiel followed without reluctance.

"Are you cold?" she asked conversationally. Castiel shook his head. "Are you _ever_ cold? I'm cold, but I like snow. Do you?"

"I suppose. It makes things very..." He looked at her. "Pretty."

She blushed under his gaze and the marked significance of it, but did an admirable job of suppressing a broad grin that undoubtedly threatened.

"Snow is a great subject for photography," she trailed on. "Oh!" She released his arm and stepped away. "Speaking of which –" Grinning like a Cheshire cat, she pulled out a photograph from her overcoat. "– tada! Here you go. What do you think?"

Castiel studied the photograph in his hands. He glanced up at her expectant eyes.

"It's nice."

"Again with the nice!"

Castiel frowned determinedly, "It's ..." Delightful? Fantabulous? Epic? He needed a thesaurus. He gripped the photograph tightly like a teenager who was being taught how to handle a car's steering wheel. "I don't know how to answer without coming across as vain."

"Go ahead, I won't hold it to you."

"It's ... divine?" he tried.

"Very convenient choice of words." Her Cheshire grin softened into something more benign. "And thank you."

"Shouldn't I be thanking you?"

"I guess we both have our reasons to thank each other."

"In that case ... thank you."

"Thank _you."_

Castiel looked extremely confused for a long moment, as if another "thank you" was stuck on the end of his tongue and he couldn't manage it out. And from the look on her face, he figured that there was nothing he could follow with that wouldn't result in her laughter.

"Um." He said it with great and unnecessary clarity, as if it were a sufficient enough response. As predicted, she laughed and resumed their walk.

"What do you plan on doing with it?" she asked, watching him tuck away the photograph within his trench coat.

"I haven't provided it much thought. What do you recommend?"

Then, for a second, he was worried that that question would seem ludicrously naive for an average human male to ask, but she didn't seem to mind.

"Everyone usually frames them, there's an option for you," she suggested. "Though, I can't imagine you framing a picture of yourself on the wall, especially if you live by yourself. You live by yourself, right?"

He resisted the urge to shift his eyes around. "... yes?"

"No pets? I have a pet." She suddenly seemed ignited with enthusiasm. "I have a cat - his name's Rembrandt!" Her smile fell then, assuming a more thoughtful expression. "I'm thinking about giving him away though. I have a feeling that I'm endorsing the stereotype that all single women in their twenties to thirties have a cat. That's how _cat ladies_ are born!" She looked exceptionally horrified.

Cat ladies? This was new.

"What are cat ladies?" Castiel asked, feeling silly about the term itself. She was about to answer when something behind him caught her eye, and she proceeded to nod in its direction and point it out for him. He turned and saw a scraggy, elderly woman who clearly lived without a roof over her head, wearing a cat on each shoulder and on her head, was being followed by a number of many more cats and, although Audrey couldn't see it, was being followed by several spirits of even more cats. Not to mention the garbage bag she held that produced the unmistakable sound of meowing.

"Oh, she's gonna do it!"

"Do what?"

"Cat Lady steps up to the challenge," she adopted the tone of a dramatic sports commentator, "her ill-fated target is locked - oh, I'd hate to be Mr. Pedals right now, wouldn't you, Cas?"

It took him a moment to spot who she was referring to and when he finally did –

"That's the cyclist who ran into you earlier." And indeed, there he was, "Mr. Pedals", as it were, cautiously pedaling down the road at a speed so slow, a turtle could teach him a thing or two. And ahead of him, the Cat Lady had in fact fished out a feline from her meowing garbage bag and was taking aim like an Olympic shot put contender.

"Right you are, Cas!" she rejoined, still in her sportscaster persona. "Cat Lady takes her time like a woman prepping for childbirth, appreciates but ignores the sound of her feline cheerleaders - _"We want a pitcher, not a belly-itcher!" _they chant! She's gonna do it, she's gonna –"

He watched in amazement as the Cat Lady launched, with remarkable precision and haste, an audibly unwilling cat in the direction of the unfortunate cyclist. Even Castiel winces when the cyclist is hit, and tumbles over with a girlish wail.

"And down he goes like a sack of potatoes!" she trilled, melodramatically throwing out her hands to gesture the hilarious disaster before them. She was quick to comment, "Breaking your fall with your face hasn't been an effective method in my experience, Cas."

As if face-planting wasn't bad enough, the cyclist seemed to be disposed in a rather compromising position; specifically, with his front on the ground and his end in the air.

And as though Audrey had noticed this at the same time as he, she amusedly remarked, "Well, _there's_ a position I may or may not be familiar with." She turned and whispered to Castiel, "He must have learned that position in prison."

To his surprise, Castiel found himself chuckling silently for a moment.

"That can't be sanitary," he eventually said in awe, watching the mangy cat begrudgingly pad back to its owner. "Someone could ... contract the plague?"

"Death by cat collision; it'd be a humiliating way to die," she observed, in a tone that suggested that her words were perhaps enlightening in a strange way. "It's not over until the cat lady sings ... and, presumably, throws a cat at you which would lead to your demise."

"Shouldn't we help him?"

"Probably."

He stared critically at her.

"What? I'm trying to get in her good book. I don't ever wanna be _that._" She pointed to Mr. Pedals, who had leapt to his feet and immediately affected a composed expression, acting like nothing happened, despite the evidence of bruising and grime across his face.

Smiling archly, she looped her arm around his once more and guided him away from the scene. "By the way, don't tell anyone I have a cat; you're not allowed pets in a lot of New York apartments, including mine."

"Why not?"

She shrugged. "They have their reasons, but I don't listen to them. If I want a cat, I'll have a damn cat."

"You sound spoiled." Then, remembering a handy phrase he learned from Sam and Dean, he added, "... no offense."

"I kill myself with kindness, yes," she grinned impishly at her own acknowledgment, "but I want the company at home, especially since I don't have a roomie anymore."

"What happened to your ... roomie."

"We had disagreements," she said rigidly, her smile faltering, "we lost our patience for each other, our trust ... our _feelings."_

"Feelings?"

"We broke up."

"I see. I'm sorry for your trouble."

"Don't apologize," she smiled, though with sad eyes. "Unless you're him in disguise!" she tried to joke, but immediately relapsed into a sort of melancholy, despite her smile. "It's okay, it wasn't an ugly break-up, but it was more awkward than anything else. It would have been nice if we ended it as friends but I take awkward over ugly."

There was a prickly silence. What on earth could he respond with? Her situation wasn't relatable to him, so "I understand" was out. She seemed to become conscious of the silence, which was a startling first.

"I should stop talking about myself," she chuckled weakly. "Tell me about yourself, Castiel! We can play twenty questions! How old are you?"

Why, she was one to jump into anything anytime, wasn't she?

Anyhow, Castiel had lived for so long, even _he_ had forgotten how old he truly was. So instead (though it wasn't as if stating his real age was even an option), he said the age of what his vessel would have been that year.

"Thirty-eight."

Her jaw dropped in disbelief. "_NO..._ You're full of shit!"

"...?"

"Thirty-eight? Shut up!"

"I didn't say anything." He was now looking at her as if she had told a joke that he couldn't understand the punch-line of.

"What are you, eternally thirty-two in the looks department?" More like thirty-five, Castiel thought. "Okay, you can ask me something now!"

Had they not already been walking, he would have shifted his weight uneasily. "I don't..."

"Can't think of a question?"

Castiel made a noncommittal movement that vaguely resembled a shrug.

"Alright. If you don't mind, may I continue my side of the game?"

He was a little startled by the uncharacteristic formality of her question. "You may."

"Alrighty ... thirty-_eight?"_ She gaped at him as if he were an exotic plant. "Sweet Sassy Molassy... By the way, I'm twenty-nine - oh, and I was born on Halloween! Isn't that neat? Okie-dokie - where were you born?"

Castiel recalled Jimmy and answered, "Pontiac, Illinois."

"Cool. I was born in East Village." Castiel blinked, looking lost. "Manhattan." Another blink. "Here!" she exclaimed, gesturing widely at the city around them. "What's your favorite color?"

Why do humans attach favoritism to colors? What's the point, if any?

Regardless, Castiel said, "White?"

"Uh uh! White's not a color," she teasingly admonished. "It's a _lack_ of color. The same way black is a lack of light."

"Then I don't have a favorite color," he conceded flatly.

"Fair enough. Favorite television show?"

What was that show Dean had once referenced to him? About the two supposedly homosexual characters? It was... "Sesame Street?" he ventured.

She suddenly regarded him with an alarming medley of bewilderment and delight. "Seriously? How cute! I used to watch that when I was like, _five."_ Once again, Castiel was floored by his compromising lack of sophistication. Somewhere in the world, Dean was soundly palming his face. "My favorite show is House; you wouldn't like House because he's an Athiest and as non-believing as one could get."

"What caused the loss of your faith?"

He's just as surprised as she was when the question emerged out of nowhere.

She recoiled a little, taken aback by his sudden question and his insistent tone. Her smile faltered, but remained, though not as bold as it was moments before.

"Um..." She dithered under his scrutiny. She looked up him with humorless eyes; the sparkle vanished. "Time. Maturity. Being human, basically."

They were practically mirroring each other's dour expressions now. "I don't understand."

"I gathered that," she said with a little humor, but her eyes remained serious. There's a long pause as she visibly tried to think of a new approach. _"Okay,_" she half-sighed, half-groaned, "hypothetically speaking, say we're sitting at a dinner table, just the two of us. We're newborn babies. Someone is feeding you a meal called Religion, right from the moment you were born, so after a while, you're used to it."

The angel narrowed his eyes. She looked up to assure herself that he was following. "On the other side of the table is me. No one is feeding me, but another bowl of Religion is sitting right in front of me. I take a few taste tests myself, but I'm not at all attached or committed to continuing with that meal. So, eventually, I just stop." Her gaze suddenly seems to snap into place with his, like two puzzle pieces. Her eyes seemed to search his, as if to locate a flicker of recognition. "But you kept going... because it's all you knew. You couldn't imagine ever existing without it. The notion of you forgoing your faith is like being told to stop walking with your legs. Does that make sense?"

"So..." he began, his eyes narrowing further to a scornful point, as if trying to pierce through her resolute judgment, "you were never raised in a household that held a strong religious foundation."

"Yes. Exactly," she answered, her expression keeping its hold against his, and behind it lingered the awareness of what he was trying to schemingly achieve. "There were no pillars, so to speak, holding me up in a position that believed in God. I mean, I got my Bible lesson every now and then through television and movies, y'know, through pop culture." She shot him a wary regard. "And pop culture isn't a very good teacher. Very misleading, very manipulative."

"How can you be so convinced that God doesn't exist if you haven't the knowledge about it?" He could tell he was getting overly persistent, but he couldn't stop.

"Touche, Castiel, very well played." At that, her smile seemed less of a smile; more so an irritated baring of her teeth. If her arm was still looped around his, he was sure she would have obstructed the blood flow in his arm. "I guess I don't really have an answer. All I can say is," she stopped walking and turned to him, ensuring their eyes met, "I don't know if He exists. I don't know how to explain it, I just, I can't _feel_ Him."

"You don't know what He feels like," he countered, a little defensively, knowing all too well of how he was looking down his nose at her, "because it is foreign to you."

She visibly went rigid. _"Perhaps,"_ she enunciated between her teeth. "I still go by my belief that if we did have a Man Upstairs, He wouldn't have let this world fall to shambles."

To both their surprises, Castiel snickered. "Did "pop culture" present you with the belief that God would do otherwise?"

He had cornered her there, and she knew it. He saw that she knew it. She saw that he saw that she knew it!

She disdainfully bit the inside of her lip and for a moment - when her head hung low, enabling him to look down at her as she shot him a solid glare - it looked as if she would allow him to bruise her and move on. But then she caught onto his priggish demeanor and that ghost of a smug smile - Castiel did not hide it - and she began to scrutinize him (and presumably, his motives) with narrowed eyes.

"I'm sorry but, are you trying to convert me?" She looked violated.

"I'm simply pointing our your ignorance."

At that, she was the very image of indignation. She managed a snide smile as she said, "Goodnight, Castiel."

His complacency vanished when he realized he had done something wrong. She caught this immediate change in demeanor, so she held his gaze for a few more moments, allowing it to confuse him further and bruise her more, so that she earned added entitlement to be upset. He knew he should say something but feared he would make it worse, since he has proved to have the knack for that. Instead, he remained characteristically still - better the devil you know, after all. She flounced off with an uppity toss of her hair into his face, and it was only until she was completely out of sight that he managed a sigh.

This situation seemed all too familiar. He was _really_ bad at this. But for reasons unknown, he was determined to make it right with this one.

* * *

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	8. Strike That, Reverse It

"_What?_ Are you friggin' kidding me?" clamored Dean, hurling a ball of aluminum foil at the angel's head, which, of course, did not faze him the slightest. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Cas, you pretty much called her an idiot for not sharing your beliefs." At this, Castiel opened his mouth to defend himself, but Sam, sensing this, swiftly persisted. "I _know_ you're in a position where you can't contradict it, but people - as in _humans_ - are usually a lot more liberal these days when it comes to religion. They don't possess the direct inside lowdown about God and whatnot like you do."

"I've realized that since then," he stiffly said, his eyes lowering away from their's in chagrin. "I framed it all wrong. I need to be more articulate."

"No," Dean snorted, "if you were any more articulate with your thoughts, she might have punched you in the face. _Thank God she didn't,_" he mumbled, kneading his knuckles unconsciously. "I think you just need to be less insistent and more considerate."

Upon noticing Castiel's rather hangdog expression, Dean clapped a firm hand onto the angel's shoulder. "You've got a baaaaad case of verbal diarrhea, my friend." At his questioning glance, Dean then asked; "Remember Chastity? Hm? She got hit with the first wave of Montezuma's verbal revenge." As if it would help any, he mimicked the act of regurgitation, and then made a whooshing sound to accompany the illustrative wave of his hand.

"Dean," Sam groaned, shooting a rather pained look at his brother, "that is a disgusting metaphor that I'd rather not have associated with Castiel."

Curious contemplation colored Dean's features for a beat, before a grimace formed its place instead. "Yeah, that _is _sick, isn't it? I doubt angels even have violent bowel movements anyway."

This earned him an extremely impatient look by Castiel, who was still secured under his hand, and Dean simply grinned charmingly and awarded him another pat on the shoulder. "Do continue!"

With a resigned sigh, he moved away from Dean's touch, and his eyes narrowed with concentration. "I'm trying to change. I'm... learning. Eventually I made things right,_ I think."_

"You _think?"_

"Things are fine now," he assured firmly. There was a brief lull, and his confident gaze faltered, and was immediately replaced with curious fascination at the night's recollection. He absentmindedly said, "It was a very interesting encounter."

* * *

He continued to visit the Christmas Tree at Rockefeller Center for the nights that followed their altercation. In the back of his mind, he knew that he was not there to stare at the tree anymore; he was waiting for _her_. And Castiel preferred to keep that impression where it belonged: the back of his mind. He had learned of and endured many emotions since assuming his human vessel, and if he could hazard a guess, what he was feeling now was a nauseating mixture of disappointment and guilt.

Though, in retrospect, he _still_ could not pinpoint the moment in their last conversation where he had struck a bad chord in her! That made him feel even more guilty. But was he right to feel guilty about not knowing why he felt guilty? This was incredibly maddening! Why did he care so much?

She was here tonight; he had seen her, but she made no move to approach him. It could be that she wasn't aware of his presence, but the rather sour look coloring her otherwise beautiful face informed him differently. Was he supposed to go over to her? Was she waiting for him? Was she only there to widely demonstrate her indignation to everyone?

Suddenly, he saw her sigh heavily and sharply turn around to flounce off. Castiel made a move to follow her, but he hesitated. What would he say? What would she say? How would she react? How was he supposed to react? What was the point of this? Why was he even there?

This matrix of simple yet decisive questions were driving him completely and absolutely thoroughly, POSITIVELY _OFF-THE-WALL **NUTS!**_

"You're supposed to follow me and say you're sorry!"

Castiel, who for a long moment appeared to be in danger of breaking blood vessels in his eyes from looking so wide-eyed with red-hot bewilderment, spun around and discovered the rather spiteful looking raccoon girl. She was rather fast on her feet, wasn't she?

"Sorry," came his automatic reply.

"Don't apologize to _that_, I want an apology for the other thing!"

"Other thing?"

"What happened the other night!" she seethed.

Aware of her potential public assault on him but willing to risk it, Castiel raised his chin defiantly and said, "No."

"No?" she spluttered as if the word was foreign to her.

"No." He stilled himself, preventing any traces of pride or superiority from manifesting externally. "I stand by what I said. You are ignorant."

He could see that she was startled by his shift in attitude; one minute he was as expressionless as a mannequin, now he seemed to smolder silently with authority. Though, she didn't appear intimidated by him as much as she was confounded. That was her general reaction until that very last statement.

"Do you really have to use that word?" she whined.

"Uneducated then." The look she then gave told Castiel that he wasn't making the situation any better. "I don't know what to say," he sighed, lowering his guard a little. "You're not entitled to be angry with me because I cannot argue with someone who doesn't know everything about what we are arguing about."

Once again, he had her noticeably cornered.

"You have a point," she grumbled hotly. "But _still! _What?"

He was smirking, and he had been unaware of it up until that point.

"You have a lot of pride," he observed in a note that suggested he was both impressed and taken aback with her possessing such a trait.

"Yeah, and that lot got hurt!" she fired back tartly.

"Ignorant... wasn't the most gracious word," he conceded in a more gentle tone, despite himself. "I sincerely apologize." Then his self-righteousness got the better of him. "Only for using that word."

Amused by his own awkwardness, he found himself smiling. It would also appear that it was a contagious smile, but she caught herself. She puckered her lips together and twitched them to one side, trying to restrain the smile that threatened, though his unfaltering smile did not help any.

"Stop smiling!" she hissed through gritted teeth - or a distorted open grin. She averted her eyes to the sky and continued to do a lousy of job of trying to repress her own smile. "Don't look at me!"

"What's wrong?" he questioned teasingly. Yes, Castiel teased; he found that he couldn't help what he was doing to her - it was alarmingly - _what was the word?_ - enjoyable!

"Don't look at me! Why can't you be ugly? You're making it difficult for me to hate you!" And like a child, she squeezed her eyes shut and clapped her hands over her ears. "You're an asshole who kicks puppies and punches orphans in the face and cuts in line in the bathroom and enjoys Michael Bay films and voted for McCain and, and-and-and sleeps notoriously with gay marriage and is against cheap hookers!"

They exchanged equally stunned glances. "Strike that, reverse it," she immediately uttered. And as if that phrase worked magically like a spell, any remaining animosity felt towards each other vanished.

She sighed, visibly dreading what she was about to do. "I am ... also sorry," she finally said, trying to smile but more appearing to be wincing.

Castiel was about to repeat the same, but then decided to pick on her further. "You didn't enjoy saying that, did you?"

"No! I didn't," she sniped with a scornful lilt, but quickly simmered down once more. "_But_... I don't want to ride the guilt trip later on." Then, she raised her chin at him, trying regain whatever dignity she felt she had lost, and fought hard to disregard his expression of quiet triumph. "So there you go. I hope you recorded that in your mind because I'm not saying it again. It's been said. No need to say it twice. What's done is done. What's said is said. Done. Cut. Finito. That's a wrap. Dunzo. That's all, folks. That's it and that's all and that's goodbye."

She stole a glance at him, and was visibly irked by what she saw. "I'm glad to see that my strife amuses you!" she exclaimed sarcastically, but with good nature. "I'd like to see you in my position."

A proverbial light bulb seemed to flash before her eyes, widening them with an enthusiasm that unnerved Castiel. "In fact," she murmured lowly, her eyes skimming to one side meaningfully, "that doesn't seem like a bad idea."

Afraid of what he was to see, he followed her significant gaze, and was met with the sight of the Rockefeller Ice Skating Rink.

* * *

Somehow, she had managed to drag Castiel down to the ice-skating rink, force him into a pair of skates and shove him onto the ice. He stood on the ice as if he were wearing a normal pair of shoes and was set on any solid surface. He was obviously doing something wrong since she was staring back at him in outrage.

"'the hell? This wasn't supposed to happen!" she raved, gesturing madly at Castiel, who was shuffling his feet like a meek schoolboy. "You were supposed to take one step on the ice and fall on your ass!"

With his hands tucked behind his back in a gentlemanly manner, he glided elegantly towards her, with him looking very considerate while she looked very petulant. Anyone watching them would have believed they were a couple ... having a little lovers' spat.

Proving to himself that teasing her was kind of fun and that Dean's sarcastic demeanor was becoming a strong (however bad) influence, he replied in subtle jest, "It doesn't look like it's going to happen, I'm afraid."

She playfully scowled at him in a very deliberate manner, but took a step back and marveled at how well he maintained himself on ice. Sam and Dean weren't around to give him a hard time about what he was doing, so he let himself glide circles around her.

"How are you such a natural at this! This is stupid!" she whined, pouting. "You don't even have to try!"

"I'm enjoying myself," he lied. Half-lied. He wasn't sure what he was enjoying. The ice-skating or seeing her completely livid. "Wasn't that the intention?" he asked innocently, knowing very well that it wasn't.

"No! _I_ was supposed to be enjoying _myself_ with the sight of you stumbling over!" A mischievous glint suddenly appeared in her eye. "Hey..."

"What?" He was becoming tremendously aware of the way she was advancing on him. He then meant to ask "What are you doing?", but all he could manage was a "W-w-wwwwh–" sound.

"C'mere, Brian Boitano!" she said with a rather menacing grin. He wouldn't be surprised if she sprouted a couple of fangs right there and then. "I just wanna give you a nice firm pat on the _back!"_

She sprang forward for him, landing surprisingly gracefully, but shocked to see that he had easily slipped past her.

"Audrey!" He looked scandalized, but only for a second, because it was plain to see that she was planning to make more than one attempt to have at him.

She was "running" after him now, intent on getting her hands on him and driving him into the surrounding barriers, but Castiel has existed long enough to familiarize with the Before-Christ innovation that was ice-skating. It was _modern_ technology that baffled him. Why, he could probably teach Sam and Dean a thing or two about swordsmanship, or horseback-riding, or archery, or flying – well, maybe not the last one.

He slid in and under and around and in between other people as if he had memorized some sort of choreography. From nearby speakers, the lyrics _"That's the way, uh huh uh huh, I like it!"_ could be heard blasting out of them, and if it wasn't for the however-nicely-packaged ball of fire hot on his bladed heels, he would have stopped, as he was extremely conscious of how alarmingly well the way he handled himself on ice was coordinating the song. If the brothers were around, but _especially_ Dean, they would have been falling over each other in uproarious laughter and he would never hear the end of it.

"_Goddamn_ you're fast!" he heard her shriek from across the rink - both were too busy to highlight her using the Lord's name in vain. "What were you, MVP of your high school hockey team? Jeez! Humor me a little, c'mon! I look like a girl with a runaway date!"

Castiel was skating around people like it was nobody's business!

Out of nowhere, she slid into his immediate line of vision, and while he came to a halt with a badass scraping of ice (but otherwise graceful), she tried to do the same and slipped instead, falling onto her backside with a squeal. Concerned, he swiftly skidded towards her, but when it appeared that she was unharmed, he immediately reassumed his unusually playful behavior.

"I imagine your ignorance has rendered you incapable of being able to catch me," he observed, with such a length that suggested he was gradually realizing all this as he was saying it. It was all, of course, just him teasing again. "Or maybe _God's_ on my side. What do you _believe?"_

"Sit on it, Castiel!" He had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but considering her snarky tone, it was something insolent. He easily sidestepped her hands, which hoped to pull him down too.

"I suggest you get up," he said, watching her struggle with amusement. "You look like a fish out of water." He briefly considered the irony of that statement. Unfortunately, he chose the wrong time to blank as she had managed to reach him and nudge in the opposite direction. Unfortunately, even more so, she caused more damage than she intended to fulfill.

It was a light yet firm nudge that would send anyone else toppling over on the floor, but Castiel dexterously held his ground as he slid back a few inches. Alas, it was those few inches that brought him in the way of another skater, who collided right into him. Both men fell in a messy heap, and what Castiel made up for in expertise on ice, he lacked in human common sense. He did not draw in his limbs when he fell.

And it wasn't long before his vessel felt something sharp slash across his right arm. And this all happened in barely three seconds!

"Oh shit!" he heard Audrey cry; she quenched the sound of another skater close by, who was gushing apologies in Castiel's general direction. She crawled over to him like greased lightening. "Castiel! Are you okay? That was a stupid question – _we need help over here!"_

People were moving in and out of the way before he even knew what was happening. He sat up on his elbows and looked questioningly at Audrey, who couldn't take her eyes off his right arm, and her eyes only widened when he made this shift in position. Finally, he looked. Someone had slid across his lower arm, and thus cut it open somewhat. Blood seeped slowly through the fabric and there was a faint line of blood that was left by the blade of the offender's skate. It was nothing major - to him at least. Everyone else, especially Audrey, but _mainly_ the offender, was blanching at the "gruesome" sight.

She stared at him in horror after he regarded it as though it was a mere piece of lint.

"I'm fine."

He needed to get out of there. His vessel would start the rapid healing process very soon, and of course, he couldn't be around anyone when that happened. Just as gracefully as every other move he had conducted that night, he rose to his feet. He was determined to leave as soon as possible.

"Bullshit you're fine! You're bleeding, okay? We need some - _Castiel!_ Come ba– where are you going? Cas- YOU NEED TO RETURN THOSE SHOES!"

* * *

Thank you so much for all the reviews so far! They totally make my day.

As usual, read and review :)


	9. If Men Are From Mars

A few days passed before he saw her again. This was done deliberately ... sort of. Initially, he intended his absence to last only a day, to evoke the illusion that he was "taking it easy" on his arm - which, incidentally, healed completely within minutes of fleeing the scene - but then a small duty that specifically required Castiel's assistance emerged onto his plate, and city of New York was denied the angel for a little longer.

Appearing back on site with a flutter of wings, he then adorned his supposedly wounded arm in neat bandages with a blink of an eye. Given Audrey's compassionate nature, he assumed she would want to examine his "injury" at some point. It was a strange thing to be near a person so touchy-feely; it was so unlike the boys (as much as Dean would like to argue that Sam actually was that way).

Waiting for her, again, at the Rockefeller Christmas Tree at night, _again_, got him thinking - why was he doing this again? She was not his charge, he was not obligated to her, and nor her to him. She hadn't any worth or value, she wasn't special, she wasn't significant, she wasn't skillful in any relevant way, she certainly was expendable ... well thank Heavens she wasn't around to read these thoughts, otherwise he would have been awarded a good slap in the face!

A gentle sigh spilled from Castiel's lips, expelling a ghostly puff of the winter air. The Tree did not captivate his scrutiny tonight; it was the ice-skating rink this time. It could simply attribute to the lasting impression elicited by the unfortunate episode on ice from a few nights before. From the boundaries that surrounded and overlooked the rink, he watched New Yorkers roam elegantly (and some, not so elegantly) over the ice. There were also couples and children chasing one another like over-caffeinated Benny Hill characters, just as he and Audrey had done.

Audrey, Audrey - how do you solve a problem like Audrey?

His little attachment to her, if you will, was unlike his attachment to Dean. Their relationship was rooted with their initial liability to one another, which had since developed into a friendship, an honorary brotherhood, over time. This all applied, though maybe to a slightly lesser extent, to Sam, too. It was different with Audrey, and the fact that it was different made the whole thing, whatever their _thing_ was, seem a tad inappropriate. For one fact, charges should never go beyond being what they were: charges - a responsibility. And well, hello, she wasn't even _that_.

Of course, Castiel had moved beyond that and gotten the better of the initial controversy of breaching standard procedures for dealing with charges. Dean was to be thanked for that. Was Audrey the next step? The casual acquaintance? A traditional friendship established by curiosity? The natural _human_ instinct? _Human_... he supposed it felt inappropriate because it felt human - something he was forbidden to have and to know. He didn't know whether to shudder in apprehension or relish with triumph over his progress.

Curiosity was a dangerous thing, especially for a being that was supposed to be confident with their own inherent tendencies. Castiel has seen what has happened when he pursues it ... _so_, he then decided, why stop now?

He spotted her in the corner of his eye and, with the intrinsic debonair sensibilities of an angel, he turned completely to address her. Her careful smile seemed to convey her greeting for her as she wordlessly joined him on the barriers overlooking the rink. Both were the very image of forced calm.

"Hello."

"Hi," she greeted in a cheerful tone that did not match her eyes. A beat passed, and when feverish interrogations never came, he frowned. Her brows knitted at this. "What? What's wrong?"

"I presumed you would..."

"Yeah, I'm not sure I _want_ to ask about the other night."

Turns out she was on the same wavelength all along. Castiel nearly smiled.

"I'm curious but..." her lips pulled upwards sympathetically, "you're obviously uncomfortable with it." Castiel issued her a sheepish smile in gratitude. "I saw the way you ran away that night." Despite her slightly wounded tone, her tender regard remained. "On some damn figure skates! Clearly, privacy is what you wanted so I'm not gonna suffocate you." Her eyes flickered, very briefly, downwards at his arm. "Still, I think you should have calmed down and waited for help."

"No... it makes no difference since I eventually acquired the medical attention I needed." He nearly frowned at his own words; that sounded a little too mechanical. She either didn't notice or didn't bother.

"But for the sake of the people around you, you should have waited," she insisted sharply. "I don't think everyone and their mom appreciates seeing a grown man run off in the snow in a pair of ice-skates and blood dripping down his arm. You probably reminded people of Jason from Friday the 13th but with a few changes in the hockey costume."

_Whoosh!_ That was the sound of another reference flying over his head. So he retorted with something deflective.

"I was under the impression that New York City was a hard-hitting place that does not pull its punches."

"Oh, pshh," she flourished a dismissive hand, "we talk big. We claim that if a person has a seizure in the bathtub, we're inclined to throw our laundry in --" At this, sheer incredulity washed over the angel's features. "-- but New York City isn't _that_ bad! We're just... misunderstood. We're the rebellious American child that lashes out irrationally when all we want is as much love as San Francisco." Her pointed look that followed informed him that his deflection was known. "But that's neither here nor there. You shouldn't have run off like that, no matter how tough you think us New Yorkers are."

Castiel did his best to look apologetic without saying it. Her wry smile in response was brief, as she eventually assumed an expression that was less encouraging.

"Frankly I'm a little disturbed," she resumed in a suspicious tone that vividly hooked Castiel's attention so swiftly that it would only heighten her misgivings further. "Anyone else would have howled in pain, or at least winced. You looked as if a breeze had caught you on the arm."

He mentally groped around for an explanation. "My job requires me to be... disciplined."

He couldn't blame her when she frowned at the mention of his job. What a mystery his profession must be from her point of view. An important, secure yet thankless, supposedly unpleasant job where one is not allowed to express themselves in a moment of physical pain. Her frown was certainly a frown of disapproval.

"I had fun though," she said, shrugging, slipping into a more casual demeanor. And, with the ghost of a smug smile, she continued, "I'd like to think I succeeded in getting you to loosen up a little." Concern flickered over her face once more as her eyes drifted downwards. "Hopefully not _too_ much."

He caught her drift and while he was sure she was still looking, made a very pointed move in burying his arm in the pocket of his trench coat until she looked back up at him.

"I _assure_ you my arm is fine," he asserted. "Your concern is unnecessary."

"Well I'm just being considerate." Her tone was defensive.

"I _know_," he gently recovered in repentant tone. "I appreciate your concern very much."

They stared at one another as if they were trying to decipher something from the other's expressions. When she spoke again, Castiel couldn't be sure if she was actually staring at him when she did, or was merely immersed in a memory and her eyes were just directed forwards.

"It sure was fun," she observed in a dreamy little voice. "Could have done without the beginning and the end, but the middle was fun. It was like a - a wacky date!"

Castiel's eyes flew open comically. A _what?_

"A _what?"_

"Well what do you wanna call it?" she coolly shrugged. The bemused tilt of the angel's head seemed to beckon her to elaborate. Blushing furiously, she unmasked a grin he had no idea she had been hiding as she betrayed herself finally. "I _like_ you, okay? You're just so ... peculiar."

_She_ was calling _him_ peculiar? He would have taken great offense to that if it wasn't for her charming state of fluster, which he inadvertently worsened by taking a very determined step towards her.

"_I'm _peculiar, am I?" he questioned lowly, as she took a demure step back.

Smiling a smarmy little smile, she relented, "Okay fine, maybe I'm a bit of a kook too, I dunno --" (_"Are you serious?"_ would have been the ideal thing to shout at this point, he supposed) "-- but you're not like other guys around here." Castiel suddenly felt less inclined to bridle and more obliged to be flattered. He carefully watched her with undisguised intrigue. "Maybe it's because you're not even from New York, but even still," she then peered up at him with the same amount of intrigue he was giving her, "there's something ... ethereal and otherworldly about you."

If only she knew!

"Thank you, Audrey."

She smiled in response. "Well, you know what they say," she resumed in a more offhand tone, "men are from Mars, women are from Venus..."

Angels were from Heaven...

Her red tresses spilled over one shoulder as she smiled, now leaning comfortably against the barriers, and it wasn't until he offered her a careful but genuine smile in return that she turned and observed the ice-skaters once more. Castiel was soon to do the same.

Although he stared forward, the foreground of his mind did not involve ice-skating New Yorkers. Audrey Hathaway... she was a peculiar little thing, wasn't she?

All of a sudden, she laughed out loud. There was a very messy incident on the rink, and long story short, it resulted in an over-confident college boy tumbling over the rink's glass enclosures.

Sensing an opportunity to break the silence, he remarked, "I'm certain that man is feeling exceptionally foolish right now."

"Foolish?" she snickered. "I doubt the smooth fella's feeling anything from the neck down."

They lapsed into a prickly silence and the hum of a more thriving conversation that was supposed to be had hung in the air. The sound of her gloved hands tapping against the barriers was a clear attempt to fill said silence. Unfortunately, it only highlighted the very tension that was quick transpire, as this was probably the first time she decided not to fill it with the sound of her own voice. Why was it suddenly so awkward?

She cleared her throat.

"Well, um, listen, I have to go," she said, not looking him in the eyes - though she didn't appear to be doing so deliberately. "I'm meeting up with a friend tonight and we plan to sit around and be pretentious."

Her vague words would lead to more clarifications that would have him at a loss if he asked about it, so he didn't.

"Why did you come here if you already had plans?"

Bashfulness suddenly washed over her, as much as she plainly tried to restrain it. "I, uh... To see if you'd come. I needed to know how you were."

_"I'm fine."_

"I see that now," she briskly replied, mirroring his suddenly aloof tone. Her cautious regard softened. "Are you doing anything tonight? You can come with me, if you want."

Now see, Castiel didn't know how he felt about Audrey, but he assumed he liked her. Though, there something different about the vibe between them tonight; she didn't seem as eager to spend time with him. Gone was her passionate temperament that had once unnerved him.

Time resumed normal flow, and he answered. "I thought I'd just take a walk."

Recollection flickered in her eyes, briefly arousing the distinctive sparkle in her eye that had not made an appearance so far that night up until then.

"Ah, that's right, you're new around here, aren't you? Silly me, I should have given you a tour already. Well, that'll have to wait until another night, I'm afraid."

Castiel offered her a firm nod that could be regarded as either a gesture of agreement or a silent bid of farewell for the night. It seemed that she saw it as the latter when she smiled at him, a little awkwardly but with good intentions, before turning and retiring from his side. They didn't even exchange proper goodbyes. No words, no embrace, no affectionate pats on the arm, not even a genial handshake.

It seemed that when she left, she took an element of warmth with her, as Castiel squirmed in the cold spot she had deserted him in. What was this feeling, this foreign sensation?

Then he realized, for the first time, he felt - not necessarily unaccompanied - but truly lonely.

* * *

Guess what? It's my dreaded birthday today! I'm eighteen - ugh, do not want. There are so many things I can legally do and that fact scares me, lol. And wow, I made it to ten chapters without abandonment! Thank you so much for all the reviews so far, lovelies. Here's to another ten! (:

Read and review :D


	10. Haus of the Über Elitist

Rocking around the Rockefeller Christmas Tree was becoming dull, so instead of loitering and waiting for her to come to him, he sought her out the only way he could. All he did was close his eyes and ask the powers that be for her whereabouts ... and then with a flutter of wings, there he was. Well, he was _near_ her location; he couldn't just pop out of nowhere right in front of her, now could he?

He stood on cement stairs, spray-painted black; the walls surrounding the narrow flight of steps were also painted black, and were adorned with posters that advertised films, concert tours and various other entertainment events. Behind him, leading upstairs, was a double layered glass door, with a laminated placard flipped around to read "CLOSED" from the outside. Downstairs, which he was now pursuing, led to a tiny, dimly lit room - it probably bore the perimeter of a king sized bed - with three doors, one on each wall. One read "Utility Room", another read "Fire Exit", and the other read _"THE HAUS OF THE __Ü__BER ELITIST"_. The universe was telling him that she was in door number three, which came as no surprise.

Twisting the handle, Castiel pushed inwards, and although the door had only opened as much as a whisker's width, music already managed to blast through the small gap he created as clear as day. Automatically, he pulled the door back shut in surprise. What on earth was going on in there?

Without further hesitation, Castiel threw the door open, and was met with the pounding sound of a song about a bad romance.

It was an underground dome, painted white. The Minimalist influence was unmissable; it was spacious, clean, solid and simple. It was like being inside a giant white disco ball, or rather, a giant golf ball. As soon as he absorbed the overall aesthetic impression of it, he realized he was in a record store! Thousands of records, both in CD and vinyl form, inhabited dozens of immaculately arranged aisles. There weren't a great deal of people in the store, though he received the impression that the place usually attracted many; it was big enough after all.

Just beside the door was a crate (the fact that it was a crate made it stand out like a beacon) labeled "REDUCED", and rummaging through it was an African American man boasting a fur coat and designer sunglasses - a vain attempt at an inconspicuous disguise - who was startled at the sudden emergence of Castiel.

"Can you believe this?" he immediately hollered to Castiel as if he knew him. This man had a very ethnic quality about him. His two brawny friends, who appeared to be bodyguards, remained silent. "How could they put Tracy Jordan's _"Werewolf Bar Mitzvah"_ in a bargain bin! A bargain bin, man!" He allowed a beat for Castiel to respond, and when he was about to (with a shrug), he continued with his tirade.

"Tracy Jordan belongs in no bargain bin! This is an outrage!" The man tossed a handful of these records back into the crate with disdain. In it were also singles titled _"Smelly Cat" _by Phoebe Buffay and another called _"Let's Go To the Mall"_ by Robin Sparkles. Castiel only managed to quirk an inquisitive eyebrow at these in acknowledgment before the stranger snared his attention once more.

"I am incredibly ticked off on Tracy Jordan's behalf – just in case anyone was wondering if _I_ was Tracy Jordan, 'cause I'm not, because that would be ridiculous, because Tracy Jordan wouldn't hang out in a place that has his novelty party song _"Werewolf Bar Mitzvah"_ in a bargain bin –"

At this point, Castiel was beginning to back slowly away as this man, who was quite obviously the _real_ Tracy Jordan, began to advance on him with his point.

"-- No! Tracy Jordan would be hanging out in a place with half-naked women, like Chateau Cabaret, or The Pussycat Lounge, or Disney's California Adventure!"

Contemplation colored his features for a moment, before he coolly said with a beckoning flourish of his hand to his two friends, "Grizz, Dot Com, let's go to Disneyland."

As the angel wordlessly stepped aside to allow the small entourage to leave, Castiel scanned the room for any sign of the red haired girl. He didn't spot her immediately, because she looked like an elf! Green Santa hat, red hair, a striped Beetlejuice-esque blazer over a navy caridgan, black gloves both adorned with a red bow, a white skirt and/or tutu that was an obvious throwback to Madonna, stripey green stockings and white knee high snow boots. The only thing missing was the big fat guy in the red suit shaking his belly like a bowl full of jelly.

There actually _was_ a man standing next to her who, if he wasn't the same age as her, was perhaps a few years younger. A strange emotion flashed violently through Castiel, prompting him to mentally probe the universe about this man ... and was relieved? when it responded with the news that that man was gay.

They were bopping to the beat of the music and howling out the lyrics as if they were at a concert. Despite the fact that he may be intruding on something, Castiel progressed towards them. As if she sensed the nearby movement, she turned in time to spot him.

Bewilderment blared across her face for a moment when she did, obviously not expecting to see him anywhere but where they usually met, but it immediately grew into a look of delightful enthusiasm as she abandoned her friend and sprinted for him as fast and as eagerly as a rabbit. With his hands dashingly tucked into his trench coat's pockets, he closed whatever remaining distance was left between them as he approached her.

"Hi!" she greeted with a very astounded lilt in her voice.

Raising herself onto her tip toes, she pulled him to a bear hug (though, was still cautious of his right arm). It was at that very moment he realized how different she was; he had never seen another New Yorker greeting another like that. Whether he should feel worried or lucky, he did not know. When she pulled back he caught her frowning confusedly, but her smile remained.

"What are you doing here?" she asked in awe. "Or better yet, how did you _find_ this place? This is like a really exclusive, hush-hush record store."

"I know, I saw the sign. It's über elitist," he echoed, as she eagerly nodded with a grin of approval. "And I was... recommended to come here."

"By who?"

"An old acquaintance who I happened to run into."

Although she didn't seem to buy it, she wasn't at all disappointed by his presence. If anything, it seemed as though his appearance had made her day. She smiled and shrugged in a way that translated to "Eh, whatever!" and looped her arm around his in the way that he realized he missed.

"It's actually closing time soon," she informed, explaining why it was so empty, "but since you're my friend you can stay and chillax with us. You're a VIP!"

Finally! A modern term he understood! He wasn't as naive as he thought. Or others thought. He began to frown - did he always appear clueless to other people?

Hang on ... did she work here? She didn't appear to be working just moments ago, but then again, there weren't many people to assist. Maybe she knew the owners? Maybe she _was_ the owner?

"Hey!" A gloved hand began to wave before his eyes, effectively whisking away his reverie. "Ground Control to Major Castiel!"

Snapping out of it, he cocked his head questioningly at her; his way of beckoning her to carry on.

"So, were you looking for anything in particular?" she asked, guiding him down an empty aisle. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw that every square tile beneath his feet illuminated upon contact. "You better like good music or I'm kicking you out."

Now he knew what she meant by "sitting around and being pretentious".

"Not really," he answered distractedly.

She wasn't pretentious in an intellectual way, but more of an "I'm an eccentric who likes different things and you're not, therefore I'm better than you" sort of way. This sort of pretentiousness was less annoying. If anything, she made it quite charming.

"That's a bingo," she sang out somewhat inattentively. Her inattentiveness drew in his regard, and he saw that she was fairly immersed with thumbing through a collection of music records listed under a certain letter. He followed her to and from either side of the aisle as she did this to many, all the while saying, "We want people to walk in with an open mind about music, not coming here to stick to what they're familiar with. So," she turned and leaned back casually against the bank of records, "just for my benefit and eventually yours, who do you listen to? I need to know so I can go find the complete opposite of that and make you like it." She then beamed in the sort of syrupy way that required a "Ding!" sound effect.

It should come as no surprise that Castiel didn't listen to music. He wouldn't count Dean's music because he supposed he more detected it with his ears rather than actually truly _listening_ to it.

"Who do you think I listen to?" he asked curiously, mirroring her by leaning against the record bank exactly opposite from her. Sensing the challenge in his voice, a slow smirk began to form on her face, but before either of them could say anything further, a nasal voice chimed in.

"Oh? Is that fresh meat I hear?"

Castiel veered around and saw a little woman tossing the box of stock in her hands onto the nearest CD bank with her eyes fixed curiously upon him. If Audrey's wardrobe was stuck in the eighties, this woman's was stuck in the seventies. She seemed to surpass his vessel's age by roughly ten years, but what she compensated in age, she lacked in height; he probably had a good thirteen inches over her. Just as she began to approach him, the man Castiel had previously seen conversing with Audrey sprung forward out of nowhere.

"Oh - my - _God,"_ he uttered, staring at Castiel in such a ravenous way that it unsettled him. He then realized, this man was more staring at his _hair_ than at him. "Do you use American Crew Fiber pliable molding creme on your hair? I hear it's matte magic, but I'm pretty attached to my Ojon Conditioning Finishing Paste, yet I can never get my hair as fiercely coiffed as yours –" His clenched fists quivered with thrill, as if to suppress a fanatical squeal. "I MUST TOUCH IT!"

Before the man's trembling, eager hands could make it to Castiel's gravity defying hair, Audrey tugged him away by the earlobe, ignoring his wails of torment.

"Yeah, okay Nicky, queen out elsewhere." Once he was almost literally out of Castiel's hair, Audrey nodded her head in the man's direction. "That's Nicky; he's –"

"Where did you find this one?" Nicky exuberantly asked in his effeminate lisp, appearing at her side from nowhere once more, sizing up Castiel with flirtatious eyes. He was like the muppet that appeared on screen seemingly out of thin air. "I think I might try my hand at a May/December relationship right about now - mm-_mmm!"_

"He speaks for himself," she deadpanned.

"By the way, nice trench coat!" he continued to fawn, shamelessly fondling the lapels of Castiel's overcoat. "These've taken over last Winter's craze for bomber jackets; y'know, trenches are _so_ in right now," he said back at Audrey, who appeared an amusing mixture of impatient and unimpressed.

"But then again," he resumed skeptically, scrunching up his face into a grimace, "only the ones in, like, cool colors. Like twilight Persian blue, or dusty palatinate purple." He stepped away and eyed Castiel's coat critically, "Not child molester tan... But you make it work! Which should be worrying, but –"

Saving Castiel from further fashion evaluation, Audrey forcibly but playfully elbowed Nicky away. "Go away!" The woman from earlier appeared on Audrey's other side, to whom she automatically gestured towards. "And this is Jody. Jody, this is –"

Castiel sighed. The intimate atmosphere they shared just moments ago seemed so far away now...

"Yeahyeahyeah, we'll make acquaintances outside of working hours!" she warbled, dismissively waving her hand about. She stared purposefully up at him. "We're on a mission!"

Jody possessed such a prominent Queens accent, she nearly gave him a headache.

Nicky, once again, leaped into the scene out of nowhere. "It doesn't involve some heavy touching, does it?"

Castiel's eyes flew open. "It -- what?"

"Oh I see," murmured Jody.

Immediately, the three of them stood back in a line and appraised Castiel like one would appraise a sculpture in an art museum. There was a steep drop in the middle as the vertically challenged Jody stood in between them. With Audrey gone from his side and instead standing opposite him, Castiel felt rather left out.

"I don't think he got the Lady GaGa reference," Nicky muttered to the other two from the corner of his mouth.

Castiel frowned. "Who's –"

"So then, he would be like a Rolling Stones guy?" Audrey suggested. Then began a verbal three-way tennis match of which Castiel was only a witness of.

"No, no, tamer!"

"Sir Elton?"

"Get outta here. Elton John's glamorous."

"The Beatles!"

"Maybe."

"Mozart? Beethoven. No... they're too mainstream."

"Mainstream?!"

"Mainstream in the realm of classical music! Jeez, DMY."

"You know," Audrey began, "the vibe I'm getting from you tells me that you don't listen to music."

"Ooh! Florence and the Machine!"

"Ahaha... Absolutely not."

"Elvis."

"Which one?"

"Either."

"Maybe Presley, not Costello."

"Really? I thought it'd be other way around."

"U2!"

"Me?" Castiel said thickly.

"Not you! U2!"

"Well that's a no," Audrey mumbled into her hand.

"I gawt it!" trilled Jody, snapping her fingers. "Dammit Janet, I know what he needs! He needs the antidote to prudeness!"

"You mean prudence," Castiel corrected.

She tugged him down to her height to pat him pityingly on the cheek. "Oh, honey, you would know."

The music, although loud, snared all their attentions when it suddenly silenced. Jody then startled Castiel by shouting.

"ALRIGHT YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS! ERRBODY OUT!" The last patron had, in fact, left just seconds before. Her heavily manicured red nail was suddenly pointed severely at him. "Except _you_ Fancy Pants; you're gonna be schooled." The pointed hand then turned into a hand that sought a greeting. "Jody Dreyfuss," she announced.

He accepted her hand, feeling a new-found respect for her of which he had no clue how she earned from him. "Castiel." Dreyfuss... "Are you German?"

"Half."

"And half-Italian."

Her unperturbed demeanor faltered a little. "How do you know that?"

"You look it." That, and the universe told him, among other things. "You're half-Jewish too. What's that like?"

An Italian-German-American Jew - what a contradicting albeit fascinating combination!

Before the flabbergasted woman could respond, Nicky obnoxiously shoved her out of the way to finally address him properly.

"I'm Alexander Pierre-Louis Nicholas von Gillern, but you can call me Nicky!" he giddily announced. His grasp on Castiel's hand suddenly tightened as he leaned into him, his expression smoldering. "Mr. Von Gillern if your nasty." He winked, and when Castiel stared back blankly, he drew back anxiously. "Please tell me you pitch for my team. Does he pitch for my team?"

_"Nicky,"_ Audrey began authoritatively, "What have I said about molesting the customers?"

Nicky's shoulders immediately sagged as he relinquished Castiel's hand, and trudged away with a pout. With him gone and the shrill heavily-accented culture-zoo of a woman already halfway across the room, he felt the warmth of the intimate atmosphere slowly reclaim its place. Audrey smiled apologetically as she gestured an aisle to walk down.

"What are you going to do to me?" he asked, and froze inwardly when he realized how risqué that sounded. Thankfully, it seemed to fly over her head.

"I know Jody may seem a bit intimidating," she said as she played with the trimming of her skirt, "but really, it's nothing. We're really only gonna play music that you may not usually listen to. We like to do that after-hours."

"I see."

She sat on a seat and gestured for him to do likewise, but Castiel saw no place to do so. Well, nowhere _obvious_. There were ... objects lying about, but they didn't look like chairs. These avant-garde designs puzzled him! Hesitantly, he sat on the thing he was nearest.

She shook her head. "Castiel, that's a table." He moved to another object. "No, that's a lamp." He moved to another. "Well that's just there for decoration!"

"Are _any_ of these seats?" he asked impatiently, not wanting to look like a fool for any longer. She grinned widely as a means to stifle her laughter, and eventually gave up her own seat for him.

"It's nice to see you," she said, claiming another seat.

"It's nice to be seen." His jest was acknowledged with a smile.

"So! What have you been up to?" she asked conversationally as she pulled up her legs to sit cross-legged.

"Um... I have been busy with work related matters." Technically he wasn't lying.

"You work on your vacation?" She sounded appalled.

"It's unavoidable."

Disappointment flickered across her face for a moment, but they were interrupted by the head of a certain flamboyant boy poking into the corners of their eyes.

"Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but seriously, are you two trying for something here, or can I –"

"Nicholas!" she seethed, just short of screaming. "What part of G-T-F-O don't you understand?"

He seemed to consider this very seriously for a moment. "I guess it would be the F, considering, well, how do you physically get the _fuck_ out – I mean, it's, it's presented as a noun, but –"

"Go _away!"_

As Nicky pulled an obnoxious face to Audrey, to which she returned in kind, Castiel noted with amusement that they acted a lot like siblings.

"Well! Pardon me for expressing interest!" he huffed tartly. Castiel shifted uneasily when Nicky pointed a finger at him. "I'd hit that! I'd hit that so hard, that whoever pulled me out of him would be crowned the next King of England!"

Instead of dignifying him with a verbal response, Audrey waved an insistent goodbye at him. As he sashayed off, Castiel exchanged glances with Audrey, who simply rolled her eyes in mortification.

These constant acknowledgments to his beauty baffled Castiel. Attractiveness was never an important factor when deciding on a vessel, and he didn't know if this kind of attention was a good or a bad thing. It could possibly help or hinder him one day, couldn't it?

"Why am I so beautiful?" he asked pensively, not thinking twice about the flagrant vanity of such a question.

Her eyes widened comically, and there was a long pause before she spoke; all the while Castiel patiently waited, blinking his wide eyes innocently.

"Is there a disease that causes a sudden swelling of egos? Because I think you may have it," she chuckled.

"You've called me beautiful before." He nodded his head in the direction of Nicky. "And to say that he's attracted to me would be an understatement." He smiled a little when her lips pulled upwards. "I don't see it."

"Are you fishing for compliments, Castiel?" she asked in a knowing tone. "You know, if there's anything I've learned from Zoolander, is that there's more to life than being really, really ridiculously good looking."

His gaze, although fond, sharpened. "I want an objective answer. I want to hear your professional opinion as a photographer." He ignored her disbelieving roll of eyes. "Tell me why I'm a good subject."

"Turn a vain question into something technical, I like it. Well..." She shifted in her seat, as if her prepare herself for the appraisal. When it appeared that she was going to launch into her evaluation quickly and confidently, she peered up and seemed flustered by Castiel's adamant, determined gaze.

"You uh, well, you have a strong jawline. Strong, but not prominent. It makes you appear strong, obviously, but..." There was an awkward pause when Castiel leaned forward with intrigue. "...gentle, at the same time. With hard lighting you can look cold and very ominuous. With subdued lighting you could look very pure and angelic."

Castiel did an admirable job in not reacting in any way to that particular observation.

"Your blue doe eyes are to die for," she continued with more enthusiasm, "Blue eyes are practically _everyone's_ weakness. And there's something about doe eyes that makes people look so delicate, like a porcelain doll." Her regard sharpened. "But there's that distinctive thing about you. Technically you have those delicate doe eyes, and the fact that your irises are blue should make you look even more delicate."

He watched as she became lost in thought for a moment, seemingly trying to propose a conclusion.

"All your features altogether still somehow make you look strong." She seemed perplexed by this, and disappointed that it perplexed her. Visibly putting it behind her, she continued. "You have a great profile." She reached forward and cradled him by the chin, turning his head from side to side. Until then, he hadn't realized how close they were sitting.

"Angles all in the right places, not too sharp, not too soft." It seemed that he had become conscious of their proximity sooner than she, and when she did, she promptly sat back. "Are you sure your nationality isn't even partially European? Because some regions –"

She began to trail on about something to do with European facial structures. Not that he was even listening anymore; he was paying more attention to how she avoided his eyes, and how apple-cheeked she had become - and it was certainly not due to the winter air, since they were inside!

"Why are you blushing?" he asked, interrupting her.

She froze, and when she realized she made such an obvious move in doing so, she began to fidget. Rubbing her neck, combing her fingers through her hair, inspecting her nails (despite the fact that she wore gloves).

"Huh? What? Shut up, I'm not blushing."

"Yes, you are." Realizing what this implied, he began to smile, despite himself. He leaned over, hoping to fall into her line of vision. "Are you attracted to me too, Audrey?"

Despite all evidence to the contrary, she replied with a huffed "No".

* * *

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	11. Like a Virgin

Dean and Sam could never say that they have ever seen a ten foot plasma screen in real life, but Castiel could. The angel was the very image of wonderment as the screen, which was above the string of checkout counters for the viewing pleasure of potential customers, illuminated with the Apple iMac's desktop of which it was connected to. The iTunes Visualizer vanished and was replaced with the projection of the track library, which Jody, who was in control of the computer, began to browse through.

Castiel had the misfortune of being squashed between Audrey and Nicky on the white leather sofa opposite the counter. Needless to say, he had no problem with Audrey, but turning his head and finding Nicky batting his fake eyelashes and grinning stupidly at him was an endless reminder of why it bothered him.

"What's the opposite of a prude?" Jody asked in such a way that would have echoed a Shakespearean soliloquy if it weren't for her thick accent, but was quick to curb everyone's opportunity to answer. "Don't answer that. For the pure irony of it," she scoped the three of them over the side of the computer monitor, "I'm gonna play a song from one of the most extroverted musicians in history, and the song's title, I like to think –" Her gaze stopped on Castiel, "– is relevant to you."

And with a stab of her finger on the Enter key, the screen behind her promptly lit up with the artist and song title, and music filled the room.

**_"LIKE A VIRGIN"_ - Madonna (1984)**

His brow knitted indignantly at once, but then, after a second thought, he dismissively shrugged in a way that seemed to translate to, "Well... it _is_ true".

Appalled but amused, Audrey exclaimed, "Jody!"

"Relevant!"

As Nicky sprung from his place to join her behind the counter, Audrey drew up her legs on the seat and smiled painfully at Castiel. With Nicky gone, he could have moved that one seat over but... he didn't.

"Sorry. I didn't plan on this becoming a debate about your virginity. Or lack thereof." Despite the fact that he had made no move to settle that uncertainty, she quickly added, "Don't say anything, I don't need to know, it's your business." She smiled tightly at him, either a way of reassuring him or just an expression of discomfort. "It's Jody. She's half a Nazi and half a Roman; she was just born with the gift of cruelty."

_"I heard that!"_

"Ungrateful is the last thing I'd want to appear as being, but I don't understand what you're all trying to do," he said, tilting his head inquisitively. "Am I supposed to do something?"

"Not really, no. It's just a thing we do with customers. We look at them, try and gauge their musical tastes, and then recommend them some music that is good but not particularly of the style they usually listen to."

"So this isn't supposed to represent me."

"God no." A thought visibly struck her. "Well in relation to this song specifically - _I don't know_, but this is all supposed to represent everything you're not, with the hopes that you like the change." Her regard turned mischievous. "That is unless you secretly like it, and you have this overt sexual energy you release when I'm not around."

"No, I believe you've selected accurately," he quickly answered with a decisive nod.

Grinning, she leaned back against the sofa's arm rest, blithely stretching out her stripy green legs and crossing them over Castiel's. He glanced down and then at her questioningly. Following his observation, she merely shrugged.

"Well I'm not gonna ask you to move - that would be selfish." As she shifted around to find her comfort, his eyes swept the room as if there were a certain two pair of eyes watching. If only Sam and Dean could see him now!

"You like it?"

His eyes flashed down to her. "Excuse me?"

"The music!"

"Oh."

"I'm on the fence with Madonna but I'm all for her eighties work," she pondered aloud, folding her arms over her chest. "And maybe, like, a handful of songs from the nineties."

His response was a noncommittal shrug and a shifting of eyes. There was a click of her tongue and her gaze melted into one usually reserved for little fluffy puppies. "You're such a prude, it's adorable."

"Perhaps it comes with the territory of being a believer," he retorted.

His snark was awarded with a firm but playful kick in the thigh which he merely smiled at. "Don't make me play _"Like a Prayer"_ just to spite you."

Bantering with her was a lot more fun than with Sam and Dean. Then again, either brother lying across him in a skirt with Madonna playing in the background was an experience he wasn't keen on having. As the music began to fade, Jody's voice chimed in.

"Okay then, that was from the Queen of Pop–"

"The head bitch in charge herself!" Nicky interjected with a passionate punch in the air.

"Yeah -- and now for the King!" Her keen grin dropped to a glower. "_Of Pop._ Because _the_ King is Elvis. And don't you forget it."

"That, honey, is arguable," muttered Nicky.

"What was that?" she hissed in response.

As Jody and Nicky engaged themselves in a heated debate over Elvis's credibility as the King, Castiel turned in his seat to Audrey.

"This doesn't sound like music," he observed.

And indeed it didn't. What he heard was no melody, but the sounds of a door creaking open slowly, followed by distant footsteps descending a flight of stairs, the sound of thunder and wind, a howling wolf –

"This is just the opening bit," she said dismissively. She perked suddenly with enthusiasm. "But! On behalf of Michael Jackson - _Long Live the King_ - he'd like to say that due to his strong personal convictions, he wishes to stress that the short film for this song in no way endorses a belief in the occult."

The occult? How was this related all of a sudden?

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "... what?"

_"THRILLER!"_ she screamed, startling him.

As if on cue, Nicky ceased the middle of his argument to scream in excitement, startling Castiel as much as the sudden fanfare of the song did. He could have sworn that his scream contributed to the vibrations on the floor that the bass line of the song generated. A laugh was shared between Nicky and Audrey and she began to snap her fingers to the infectious beat, but Castiel was eager to pull their discussion back.

"What do you mean _the occult?"_

"You know, like zombies." She made a bizarre gesture which involved her holding up her hands formed as claws and swinging them from left to right. "Zombies!"

Castiel couldn't possibly have frowned harder in confusion. "This," he lamely mimicked her gesture, "is not the living dead."

A snort emerged from her as she desperately tried not to burst into laughter, but was spared by her two friends tugging at each of her arms.

"C'mon Audrey, usually you're the one to get the dance started!" Nicky implored.

"I don't want Cas to feel awkward by himself," she declined, shaking both their grips off of her arms and shooing them away. "You keep doing what you're doing."

And they did... while Castiel watched in horror.

"If you keep your mouth open like that, you may just attract flies," Audrey joked, and he instantly caught himself staring agape. It seemed she had been watching his reaction the entire time as opposed to the bizarre "dance", if you will, ensuing before them.

Folding his arms, he sunk back into the sofa and continued to watch in awe. "Whoever this Michael Jackson was, he had a strange interpretation of the undead."

The way she stared at him after he said this was palpable. Either she was silently judging him, or trying to form a good argument. The girl was so mercurial, and was likely to do both. Eventually, she sat up onto her knees beside him.

"I don't think anyone, no matter how religious they are," she offered him a significant look, "has a more or less accurate conception of what a zombie is. If they exist. Which they don't."

Whenever she demonstrated her - let's face it - _surprising_ intellectual capacity, especially when it was on a subject Castiel was interested in, he was always eager push it to see how far it went.

"So this musician was religious, was he?" His narrowed eyes were a clear indication of his interest, and the earnest discussion that was to come.

"Does that surprise you?" she asked challengingly. "I mean, he was more or less of a prude like you in reality, but on stage, or in the recording studio – _wooooh!"_ She tossed her head back and swooned. Quickly recovering, she added, "Like I said, he didn't _believe_ in the occult, so relax." There was a pause. "Do you believe in the occult?"

"Do _you?"_

"I asked you first."

He raised his chin with dignity. "Yes, I do."

"Hm."

"What?"

"I don't know." She studied him dubiously. How she regarded him so easily without becoming distracted by the flailing arms and legs just ten feet before them was certainly a natural talent.

"I've just never encountered a religious person who does," she resumed. "I know most go as far as to believing in the existence of Hell, but I didn't think anyone would give a second thought of what exactly goes on on that side of the spectrum." Her eyes gleamed with a new-found intrigue in him. "So what do you believe in? Monsters? Vampires? Ghosts?"

"All of it. It's all true," he declared, his gaze insistent. "Demons are very common, vampire covens exist, and ghosts... _spirits_ are everywhere." His eyes wandered off in thought, practically forgetting her presence. "Some angry and vengeful, lingering on earth with their personal vendettas ... some still cling desperately to the mortal world, some of them are trapped in a torturous death echo, and then there are those who haven't even become conscious of the fact that they're dead ... always needing an angel's help, these spirits."

As he became acutely aware of himself, he cast a curious glance at Audrey, who was stunned to say at the very least. For a long moment, her mouth opened and closed as words failed her.

"_...really?"_ she slowly managed, and it was blatantly obvious that it was the only thing she could think of to respond with. Gradually, she seemed to gather her opinions once more and she continued. "So, uh... what led you to believe that? Do you think if God and his underlings exist, then there must be some sort of antithesis?"

Usually a strong defense would present itself in this situation, but instead, a red light signaling the potential for a huge argument was ahead emerged in the foreground of his mind. It alarmed him that his natural instinct to defend _himself_, really, did not conquer; instead, he found that he was protective of the delicate little friendship they shared. God forbid.

His gaze turned desperate. "I don't want to argue with you, Audrey."

The conversation's direction visibly dawned on her, and she reacted in kind. "I don't want to either. I'm sorry."

As the night stretched on, they had played him music from David Bowie, ABBA, Depeche Mode, Duran Duran, Soft Cell, Queen, Prince – he thought it was strange that the latter two had such monarchial names, not to mention the "King and Queen of Pop" they had referred to earlier – and the aforementioned Lady GaGa, another artist of whom Castiel thought had a peculiar name.

The relentless bickering between Nicky and Jody, and their occasional dancing, seemed to exhaust them of all their energy, and eventually they bid their goodbyes and goodnights, leaving the angel and the red-haired young woman alone in the store. Of course, Nicky didn't leave without making Castiel uncomfortable for one last time; what appeared to be an innocent handshake was just a scheming way to put a scrap of paper with his phone number and Twitter address into his palm.

Jody, too, didn't leave without a lasting word.

"Goodnight darlings! Don't have sex in the back room, because I'll know!"

And what a word.

Castiel stared speechlessly at the door as it slammed shut. Her remark didn't seem to faze Audrey the slighest, as she turned around and clasped her hands together with a smile usually only practiced by sugary ballet teachers.

"Okie-dokie then, time to clean up!"

Castiel sized her up suspiciously when she moved towards him. "Clean -- clean up what?"

"The store!" she answered matter-of-factly, veering around his rigid figure. "They left me to do the closing up, duh."

"I see," he sighed, letting loose the mysterious tension he didn't know he had been harboring. What was wrong with him tonight? Either he was getting stupid, or his mind was becoming perverted. It was all Dean's fault! No, it was _her_ fault for provoking him!

"Or..." she interrupted his frenzied thoughts. Whirling around to her, he saw that she was now behind the counter, one hand rifling through a drawer. Her hand stopped on something as Castiel moved to her side of the counter. _"Or,"_ her shady gaze pulled over to him. "...we could do something else."

He certainly wouldn't admit to himself how much her words excited him.

She hoisted herself to sit on top of the counter, and with a finger, she beckoned him to come forward.

"Come here."

What was she up to? Cocking his head suspiciously and allowing his gaze to fall briefly to her legs dangling over the counter, he smoothly drew nearer. He stopped just before her, knowing that one step closer would have them in an extremely compromising position. Though, she seemed oblivious to any innuendo when she forced him that much closer, until he was trapped between her legs. Before he could react, the indecent illusion was shattered when she held up tiny bottle of liquid eyeliner. She grinned like a four year old holding a crayon. This couldn't be good.

"What are you doing?" he asked, watching her unwind and extract the brush applicator. All tension vanished as if he had been doused with cold water when she held him by the chin and hovered the brush underneath his right eye.

"You'll see," she cooed in a sing-song voice, focusing on the design she began to paint onto his face. Well, it was too late to pull away now.

The music, which had been alive and well in the background, faded into a different song. The change had her pausing for a moment, and realizing what the song was, she threw her head back and laughed.

"_"Vogue"_! The computer loves me!"

Not only did she have little regard for personal space as much as he, she also didn't seem to have any qualms about him staring directly at her as she worked. He had never met someone so unnaturally at ease... disregarding the earlier moment when he had called her out on her attraction to him, to which he was surprised was not manifesting itself right now. Honestly, they were practically doing exactly what Jody forbid them to do!

Castiel tried desperately to think of something else, otherwise she would eventually be physically detecting his thrill. Oh Lord...

Her work! That was a subject that wasn't bound to become suggestive in any way!

"I want to ask you something."

"Mhm?"

"Do you work here?"

He felt her pause from her work, and her eyes drifted off somewhat in consideration.

"No," she eventually said, regaining her direction. "Jody owns the place and Nicky works here, and there are some other sales assistants. Since I know them well, they allow me to come here anytime I want and help. And, like today, sometimes I close the store for them."

"And you get paid?" Yes, he was _totally_ fascinated by her salary...

"Nope," she smirked a little, "I don't need the extra money." His full attention hooked on the word "extra". She withdrew her hands completely and smiled, returning the eyeliner brush back into its pot. "Believe it or not Castiel, I'm pretty well off."

Before he could respond to that, she gripped his shoulders and pushed off of him, hopping off the counter and onto her feet. One hand was briefly buried in the drawer once more and, like a shot, reemerged with a hand mirror, to which she held up to his face.

Good God. He had a freaking lightening bolt on his face! What was that all about?

"Look at you!" she enthused. "Lookin' fierce, Castiel! I dub you Lord GaGa!"

"Why a lightening bolt?"

"It's very David Bowie, don't you think?" They exchanged glances over the mirror, hers approving and his bewildered, before he lifted a finger to touch the design. She immediately slapped him on the shoulder with the hand mirror.

"Don't touch it!" she yelled. "It's not dry yet!"

He held up his palms in defeat before burying them in the pockets of his trench coat. They fell into a silence that would normally be awkward (on his part), but music thankfully filled that void. When he saw that she needed privacy and complete concentration to count out the cash registers, he moved from the counters and patiently pursued the aisles instead. The clings and clangs of all the coins being tossed and counted echoed across the room, and he become profoundly aware of how it slowed all of a sudden.

"I like this song," he heard her wistfully say from across the room. "It depresses me."

He didn't even notice the change in song. Angling his head slightly as if it helped him hear the song over those noisy coins, he stopped, turned and stared across the room at the plasma screen.

_**"IMAGINE" - John Lennon (1971)**_

Dean had mentioned this song in passing (with some resentment, too), Sam had it on his iPod, but God forbid if Castiel ever knew how to use that thing.

"Why do you like the song if it depresses you?" he asked, regaining his step.

"Musically, it's very good," her voice was both pensive and distracted, "Lyrically... it's just so honest. With such honesty you'd think a bit of sugar coating came with it but this song's so unadorned yet straightforward. It's so real. It's like, the feeling you get from the song, that sort of peace? - you can only get if it wasn't all, y'know, just imagination. Fanciful notions of a world without borders, the simple but scary idea of no Heaven or Hell –"

Here they go again...

"You made no claim of belief in such a thing. Therefore how can it possibly scare you?" he asked, pausing from leafing through a random selection of records.

"Remember, this song was composed in a very condemning age. What wasn't scary and controversial within the shadow of the second World War, with Hitler and his Third Reich? The subject of religion in particular. People were very conservative those days."

He stared at her. She felt his gaze, and when she peered up and saw that he was incredibly taken by the topic, she properly paused from her task.

_"I'm_ not afraid of the notion of there being no Heaven or Hell. If there is, I'm pretty sure I've been good enough to be given the nod to access Heaven's pearly gates. If not, what happens? I just stop existing? Okay then, I'll take that. It's not like I'll mourn myself, since I won't even exist!" She then resumed her duties. "But back to the point, the song did elicit a substantial amount of controversy, as it did challenge religion in some way. John Lennon wasn't trying to be edgy, he was trying to be blunt ... in a subtle way."

With a closing nod, she shut the cash register and wandered into the back room with the day's earnings. As usual, Castiel prolonged the discussion.

"I don't understand why this musician would want this type of world," he said, louder than usual so she could hear him, as his fingertips danced casually over the spines of the records. "He sounds anti-religious, anti-nationalistic –"

"Keep in mind that the song is called _"Imagine"_, Castiel," he heard her muffled voice from the back room. "Besides, do you know what a world like that is called?" There was a sound of a steel door slamming shut, possibly the store's safe, and she appeared at the door once more. _"Utopia."_

"Heaven," he determined aloud.

"No no, not Heaven," she smirked; her stride towards him (well, the aisles) was quick and purposeful. "Heaven suggests religion, as does Hell. Utopia is manmade, the way Dystopia - which I suppose is along the same lines as Hell - is manmade."

"And people find that frightening?"

"Well," she began; there was a long pause. She was clearly having difficulty forming a strong argument while tidying up the record banks as quickly as she could. "To those who invest so much of themselves into a religion find the very idea of it not existing frightening. I assume it's like a personal attack on their pride and dignity and virtually the point of their very existence. You don't find it frightening?"

His face clouded. Technically, Castiel knew his fate. He couldn't die since he wasn't living. He was ... unborn. Unmade. The ultimate fate of all angels was to either exist forevermore or to die and stop existing completely. No after life existed for them; their home was the after life of mortals, and that was their Earth, their "now".

"I haven't really thought about it."

His answer had her stopping completely.

"How strange."

"Why?" he asked, taking an inquisitive step forward.

She turned to face him, and regarded him with the sort of enigmatic curiosity he often gave her. "Isn't that the whole point of investing yourself into a faith? Entrusting your belief to there being an after life, Heaven, a haven for indulgence, and that there are, to put it casually, guidelines you must follow to be entitled access and signs directing you down the path to get there? What else could you want out of that?"

It made a lot of sense, but because he was not human, these ideals did not apply to him.

"Stop thinking right now, Castiel," she suddenly threw in. Refocusing, he was met with her regretful gaze. "I don't want you doubting yourself because of me. I just like talking to you," she smiled faintly. "Especially with that stuff on your face."

"I enjoy your company too." His eyes darted; that wasn't just a reply, that was an honest acknowledgment. And it unnerved him.

Sensing his demeanor but not quite knowing what was wrong, she took his hand and crept her fingers under his, entwining them together and giving him a reassuring squeeze. Once the nice, storybook moment was over, she tugged him in direction of the exit. "C'mon, we gotta go. It's time to lock up."

At this, he released her hand, despite how pleasant it had felt, and drew back immediately. "You expect me to go out there looking like this?" he asked, casting a paranoid glance at the nonexistent mirrors around him.

"You scared?" she teased.

He bristled and straightened up, "I'm not afraid of anything."

With a patronizing grin, she gestured for him to lead the way.

* * *

Do these long chapters bother any of you? Let me know; I'm the type of person who is inclined to avoid stories with long-ass chapters like this. If they're too long, I'll split future chapters.

Read and review :)


	12. Jesus Christ! Superstar

Their exit was unlike the way Castiel had entered earlier. It involved accessing the doors in the back room, trailing a flight of stairs that led up towards a single doorway veiled with lines of hanging beads rather than a door. Proceeding through that, and he found himself in one of those two-bit convenience stores with lighting too garishly lit against the store's merchandise, with weak AM/FM radio fizzling in the background. It was the type of small-townish store that Sam and Dean must have grown familiar with on the road.

What a sudden change in scenery! For a second, Castiel thought he may have unthinkingly "flown" (see: teleported) the both of them to some nondescript southern town, but viewing out the shop windows before them and noticing the the narrow road, the yellow cabs and overall concreteness, they were most definitely still in New York City.

Before anything could be said, an Asian man thudded into his side, effectively turning over a stock trolley of boxes he had been handling. The man spat out a loud obscenity in Japanese as it all tumbled to the floor.

Castiel quickly launched into a series of differently and hastily rephrased expressions of regret in Japanese. And while, for a moment, the look the man gave him held admiration for his language skills, Castiel then made the mistake of looking him in the eye and, complete with relevant hand gestures, said in English, "I - AM - SORRY. I - NOT - SEE - YOU. PLEASE - FORGIVE?"

The admiring twinkle in his eye vanished, was replaced with a look of great indignity and disgruntlement, and then, with perfect English and an unaffected American accent, the man huffed, "Yeah, thanks asshole."

Castiel paled. He only managed to blink when he felt a hand grip his shoulder with dear life; it was Audrey clutching onto him as she laughed uncontrollably.

"He speaks perfect English!" she choked out within her hysterics.

The man blew a whistle through his fingers, and the head of a teenage casualty of acne poked around the corner of the furthest aisle. He snapped his fingers in the air and pointed to the mess on the floor, his subtext obviously telling the kid to clean it up for him while he proceeded around the front counter.

Audrey wobbled forward and leaned against the countertop, wiping away a tear. _"Ohhhh_... evenin' George!"

Castiel raised an eyebrow. His name-tag read "Ken".

"Evening Audrey," he replied, gathering random items from around him into a paper bag, presumably for Audrey. Considering their interaction Castiel assumed she was a regular of his. "Closing up for Jody again, I see."

She nodded. "George"'s eyes darted to Castiel.

"Is he with you?"

"Yeah, this is my friend Castiel. He's a bit socially retarded –" He shot her a frown, and she returned it with a beam. "– but he's cool."

He felt George's eyes fixate on the black lightening bolt on his face. "No kiddin'," he murmured skeptically.

She seemed to bounce on her feet for a moment. "So uh, do you have my, ahh –"

"Ah yes," his eyes glimmered with recognition, "I'll go get it for you."

George moved from around the counter and past them both, but not without eying Castiel up and down. Once he disappeared through another door of beads and began barking orders to someone in Japanese, Castiel spoke.

"His name isn't George."

"I know," she was quick to respond as she perused a magazine. "I call him George after George Pappard from Breakfast at Tiffany's, and he refers to me as Audrey, after Audrey Hepburn from that film, too."

"But your name _is_ Audrey."

Shrug. "He thinks it's funny." Then, closing the magazine (_"Vanity Fair_", he noted) and pushing it towards her shopping bag indicatively, she finally looked up at him in the eye. Straightaway, there was laughter. "I can't believe you thought he couldn't speak English! That's the funniest thing ever."

"I had no idea," he murmured sheepishly.

"Oh, don't sweat it," she said, her laughter alleviating but her grin never faltering. "The first time I met him, I did the same thing. At least you actually knew Japanese enough to impress him for a moment there." Her regard turned pointedly impressed. "_I_ didn't know you could do that, by the way!"

"I can do a lot of things." He smiled at her a little; it was like an inside joke with himself.

"And that is just what a girl wants to hear." The faintest hint of an indecent smile crossed her lips and receded very quickly. George returned at that very moment, and this time, Castiel was slower to divert his attention away from her.

George presented to her with what could be described as either a book on a budget or a really upmarket and expensive magazine.

"Here you go."

"Thank you. Hold this," she said, pushing the magazine into Castiel's obliging hands. Leafing through it, he found that it was a photography publication.

As George totaled her purchases, _Vanity Fair_ included, she conversationally asked, "How did Kira's _Wicked_ audition go?"

He frowned a little. "Oh, the usual."

Her brow furrowed ruefully as she handed him money. "Only a back-up part, huh?"

"Yeah," he sighed dejectedly, cashing in her change. "My girl loves singing and dancing, but let's face it, no one's looking for an Asian-American Elphaba."

"The sad truth," she also sighed, accepting her change and her bag of shopping. She smiled, "I'll see you around."

"Have a nice evening, Audrey." His eyes twinkled like a wizard as he smiled. Though, the smile turned condescending when he looked at Castiel. "And I - HAVE - GOOD - DAY - YES?"

Castiel had the grace to look sheepish before thrusting the magazine back into Audrey's hands and hurrying out the store. She soon followed, audibly stifling her laughter as she stuffed her purchases into her shoulder bag.

He drew back in amazement and all mortification was forgotten. One look to his right and _bam_, there were the high rises disappearing into the night sky and the vibrant chaos of advertising. They couldn't have been more than three hundred feet away from the immediate Times Square neighborhood. Already could he see the kaleidoscope of borrowed light from Manhattan's nerve center, illuminating the tail end of the road they were now pursuing.

As they walked down what was probably West 47th Street, considerably slower than everyone else, her arm looped around his; a tradition of which he had become accustomed to. It surprised him that he didn't mind it. In fact, he found it quite comforting, especially in light of the fact that the horde of New Yorkers around them was expanding as they closed in on the end of the street. What a spectacle they must have made; she looked like a Macy's Santaland elf and he looked like a guy who had a bad day on Wall Street.

The electrifying focal point of New York City increased in view with every step he took, heightening each sensation. Every which way, there was something to look at and admire. They stopped on the corner, and while it appeared as though they were waiting to cross the street, Audrey wordlessly allowed him a second to just stop and stare.

The sort of small towns he would often visit with the brothers seemed dead in comparison. This district was so _alive_; the atmosphere buzzed with that tangible metropolitan dynamism, but there was also an air of theatricality that was truly only New York's.

Evidence of recent snowfall caked the gutters and the roads glistened with reflections of the tireless traffic gliding over it. "Glamorous" was the only way to describe Times Square, and it was everything the lifestyles of Sam and Dean were not. It was luminous, and not in a seedy neon bar type of way. It simply dazzled and enticed.

Snow began to fall ever so lightly, and as delicately as the sound of wind chimes. Somewhere in the background, Frank Sinatra's _"Santa Claus is Coming to Town"_ began to play, adorning the ambience with a festive grace.

The moment was one out of a Christmas fairy tale. With a genuinely marveled smile, he peered down at Audrey, who looked rather indifferent until she caught his eye. She immediately adopted a smile.

"Welcome to your first Christmas in New York City," she said, widely gesturing the bedazzling setting before them. Her smile turned wry. "You should see the look on your face. It's like you've discovered a whole new world."

"It feels like I have," he said wistfully.

"So, what do you think?" She crossed her arms as she surveyed the scene. "Beautiful? Obnoxious? Spiritless?"

He did likewise. After a moment's thought, he replied, "It's all of those things."

Clearly not expecting that answer, her face mingled with consideration for a beat.

"I guess. New York has it all."

Her nonchalance bugged him. "You seem apathetic." She blinked at him in a way she must have acquired from him. "This doesn't make an impression on you?"

She shrugged in an "I can't help it" sort of manner. "When you've been raised in New York, few things about this city blow you away anymore."

The gaze they then shared was quickly interrupted by a mob of New Yorkers shouldering past them, as the pedestrian crossing lights had finally permitted them to move. They exchanged glances within the swarm, silently agreeing that it was unwise to just stand there idly, and he allowed her to tug him across a different crosswalk. Just ahead, there was a very prominent marquee that read "Doubletree Guest Suites", effectively guiding his regard upwards and noticing the building that towered over them. He wondered briefly what it had looked like for two of these high rises to collapse eleven years ago. He also wondered if it affected Audrey at the time.

"So were you planning on doing anything here or were you just gonna stare?" she asked, following his gaze.

He regarded her bemusedly. "What is normally done in Times Square?"

"Well, you can either shop, eat or watch a show." She smirked suddenly. "It's very representative of America, don't you think?" She began to laugh, but something ahead of them caught her eye.

"Ooh!" Seizing his hand, she dragged him onward. "Here's the famed Palace Theater! Man, if Jesus Christ Superstar was still playing, I'd so take you to see it."

_Jesus Christ Superstar?_ Did he even want to know? At his questioning glance, she waved her hand around, trying to beckon some sort of recognition.

"Y'know, Jesus Christ! Superstar!" she sang. "Do you think you're what they say you are?" Blink. "Broadway, Cas! Y'know, Broadway?" She enacted a few chorus line moves, and he still stared on blankly. "I swear, you're from another planet or something."

She shot him one of those pitying looks that would usually follow his moments of naivety, but it disappeared quickly and she pulled him to the side of the road.

"So, what's playing?" she asked the billboards above and around their heads. There must have been an unwritten compulsory requirement to have some form of advertising on Times Square buildings.

"Wicked, Phantom, of course... Spring Awakening, Billy Elliot, Chicago, Les Miz, The Adams Family, Priscilla - ooh, the fortieth anniversary of Rocky Horror is next year! And –" she gasped hugely, "– THE WIZ! It hasn't been on Broadway since 1984!"

He wasn't really paying attention. How could he pay attention when there was a naked guitar-playing cowboy across the road? For the love of all that is Holy, it was snowing! Audrey was quick to notice his preoccupation.

"Don't worry, he's not really naked. That's just a really strategically placed guitar."

As the Naked Cowboy spun around with his back to them, serenading another group of giggling women, her statement was indeed verified.

He blanched at her next words.

"Let's go say hi!"

Before he knew it, she was hauling him across the road, barely dodging the moving traffic, and onto the ironically named Duffy Square, which, if you asked Castiel, would say was more of a triangular quadrilateral than an actual square.

They stood together along the red tape barriers, searching the site for one Naked Cowboy.

"Balls!" she cussed. "Where did he go?"

"My name is Castiel."

"Very funny!" she snapped, and he smirked. "That bastard moves fast."

"Maybe it dawned on him that snow is cold and decided to put some clothes on."

"That doesn't sound like Robert," she said contemplatively. She jumped. "Oh! _There_ he is!" He was about to cross to the other side of Times Square. "C'mon! I can get a photo of you with him!"

Again, he blanched.

"What? Oh, no, no no, Audrey, I appreciate the suggestion but that is completely unnecessary."

His words fell to deaf ears. The urge to flee the scene had never been more alive when she released his hand and ducked under the red tape enclosures, in her pursuit for the Naked Cowboy. Salt crunched against the ground as he shuffled his feet, wavering on whether or not follow her - she was lovely and all, but she was nuts! Sighing defeatedly, and prematurely knowing he would regret this, he ducked under the red tape and went after her.

The Naked Cowboy had already crossed the road and was crooning to a snotty looking upper-class couple who were rather reluctant to be around him. Castiel caught up to Audrey, who was scuffling around on the side of the road, waiting for an opportunity to cut through the traffic.

"You don't have to do this, Audrey," he said, tucking his hands into the pockets of his trench coat.

She mistook that as modest words. "Don't worry, I _want_ to do this!"

"Allow me to rephrase that: _I _don't want you do this." Had she turned to him, his pointed look might have enlightened her to what he meant. Instead, she took for the nearby crosswalk.

He sighed and scowled up at the night sky as if his Father had orchestrated the whole thing and was avidly watching. Stars winked in response, and he took that as an equivalent of a cheesy thumbs-up gesture with an approving grin.

"HEY!" she was shouting as she sprinted in between people over the crosswalk, as Castiel trudged behind like a long-suffering parent waiting on their hyperactive child.

While traffic wasn't so much of a concern on a crosswalk, the icy road still was. He heard it all before he saw her. There was her squeal and a subsequent _crack!_ before the flock of pedestrians reached the other side of the road and went their separate ways. He saw her on the ground as they parted through the middle, granting her only a fleeting glance, but otherwise ignoring her. She had slipped and fallen.

"Audrey?" he called out, tearing after her and nearly slipping on the ice himself. How could people just dawdle past?

"Are you all right?" he asked, crouching down to her. She wasn't conscious. He scooped up the back of her neck and her head fell back limp; then something warm and wet reached his hand. Switching hands, he saw that blood had stained his palm. It was on the ground underneath her too.

"Dude, she's totally bleeding!" cried out a young voice.

"No she's not!" he immediately yelled up in the general direction of the voice, his head whipping up and discovering a teenage boy standing there in horror.

Castiel did his best not to wince as he dropped her head back onto the ground; that blood on the ice had to be hidden if he wanted this to work. Creeping one hand underneath her head once more but not lifting it, he began to heal.

"You want me to call 911?" he anxiously asked, stepping forward.

"No!" The boy drew back. Then, in a more calmer tone, "No."

"But she's bleeding!"

"No, she's not. Her hair is red, that's all."

"I'm not that stupid, man - I _saw_ the blood, I saw it with my own –"

Castiel lifted the back of her head to the teenager.

"– eyes..." All signs of blood were gone; both on her and on the ground. "But... I totally saw it. I swear, it was there!"

By the end of his sentence, Castiel had scooped her up into his arms.

"At least you allowed her more than a momentary glance," he said, as he began to move off with her body, "unlike other people in this city."

* * *

The next chapter was meant to be apart of this, but I found that it was too long that way, and too many things were happening in the one chapter. So the next one should be up sooner than usual since it's almost complete.

Read and review :D


	13. Starbucks on Broadway

Hello readers!

I can tell this question is going to emerge regularly so I might as well address it now: will Castiel ever reveal his identity to Audrey? Firstly, the premise of the story is to simulate New York City sitcoms (Friends, Seinfeld, 30 Rock, How I Met Your Mother, Sex in the City), and as you know, sitcoms don't _really_ have ongoing plots. Also, the earlier half? of this story is supposed to have a sort of Christmassy feel to it (think _Elf_, it also has that fish-out-of-water aspect to it, which strongly applies to Castiel).

A lot of random scenarios will transpire as they would in traditional sitcoms, the romantic relationship will grow slowly but not without its hints, like Ross and Rachel from _Friends_, and Castiel's identity will be constantly signaled à la the Mother in _How I Met Your Mother _- so eventually, all will be revealed. I can't reveal it early on because then it will get all serious, wouldn't it? ;)

That's my oblique way of saying I simply cannot write supernatural-related (as in the subject, not the show) stories and that I watch far too many sitcoms.

* * *

His angelic aura groped around the coffeehouse and counted eleven pairs of eyes, staff included, fixated on his back. The café was conveniently across the road from where she had fallen, a place for her to both to rest for a moment and receive a shot of caffeine once she roused from her comatose state. Castiel had her laid on the seat of the farthest booth, while he sat on the table, awaiting for her to come to.

The story he had fed the staff was that she was intoxicated and needed coffee, despite the fact that he didn't even proceed to order said coffee. And yet, they and the patrons continued to stare. They must have thought the pair of them had been up to some hard partying, what with Castiel's lightening bolt make up and Audrey's... everything.

For a second, he thought he detected a very abnormal presence in the room, but he just passed it off as the general discomfort of having that many mortal eyes fixed upon him.

He knew it was easier to just place two fingers against her temple and rouse her himself, but he decided that she should go at her own pace. That and her being unconscious for longer grants him stronger incentive to lecture her later. A coma was not a potential threat, he was certain of that; earlier, he had calculated how long she would be in this state by pressing a hand against her forehead. She had about ten or fifteen minutes, give or take.

His eyes never left her until just then, when he peered around to the other people in the café, knowing that when he did, they would automatically resume their own businesses. As soon as Castiel had turned to them, they did exactly that. They weren't very subtle about it at all. However, one man, the cashier, did not look away. He had been staring at Castiel intently, and perhaps with an element of amusement, ever since he had set foot on the premises. The opportunity to question this man's motives with his eyes was lost when she began to stir.

It took a few seconds for her to recognize the throbbing pain on the back of her head, right away dispelling an otherwise pleasant awakening. She had been ninety-five per cent healed; he ensured that a bump and some grazing remained, and a wicked headache, for practical purposes. She moaned, grabbing a fistful of her hair in discomfort, and her eyes reluctantly opened. Castiel made sure he was the first thing she would see.

"You shouldn't have run."

While his eyes were severe, hers trembled against his. "Who... who are _you?"_

His proverbial heart sank. With one hand propped up against the crown of her seat, he leaned down to a very close proximity, studying her petrified blue eyes.

"Audrey, it's me, it's Castiel. Do you remember me? Audrey?" He desperately searched her eyes for any flicker of recognition.

She proved herself to be a gifted actor using her talents for evil when the characteristic glint in her eyes reappeared.

"I'm just screwing with you," she grinned. He didn't look impressed at all. Withdrawing from that closeness, he reassumed his dour solemnity. "What happened?"

"You and your feet had a bit of an incident with a road and some snow."

Her lips quirked into a smile. "Thank you for phrasing my slipping over in such an amusing way."

"You didn't listen to me." His icy tone and dark regard dared her to negate him, and her smile vanished. "I disapproved of your proposal to take a photograph with... that _man, _but you didn't listen. And you ran." He regarded her with condescending curiosity. "Between you and me, I thought you would be wiser to know that the roads weren't in a condition to be running on."

"Yeah yeah yeah," she nonchalantly waved her hand about, "I'm sorry, okay? Look, can we just –"

_"Don't_ dismiss me." His tone was grim and almost threatening, silencing her instantly. "You nearly died."

Both his tone and his words made her flinch. "That's stretching it."

He eyed her testily. "It is _not_ an exaggeration and that's all I'll say."

"Castiel –" A gloved hand stretched out and patted whatever she could reach, which happened to be his thigh. "– it's just a little bump, nothing you can't get from having your head knocked against the headboard." At his thrown reaction, she shot him a look. "Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about."

He sighed, shrugging off her tongue-in-cheek words. Relief and exasperation spiraled through him in a nauseating sensation. Peering down to Audrey, who was smiling reluctantly up at him, he decided that things could have been worse. Normally he would react this way to say, demon possession, and yet here he was, granting her the very same attitude and it was because she fell over.

The whole thing was monstrously enigmatic.

Demonstrating an act of boldness, Castiel reached down and gently swept strands of hair away from her eyes, knowing full well of how his fingertips feathered her brow. His hand lingered against her cheekbone when this gesture was done. It could easily have fallen into a rather romantic moment, but then the very same strands fell back into place and Castiel's compulsion for order kicked in, and he obsessively tried brushing it back into place. He withdrew when she slapped his hand away.

"Stop that. These are frontal bangs," she muttered, styling her fringe to her liking, "they're supposed to fall over my face."

"Oh," he mustered thickly. "My apologies."

When she began an attempt in sitting up, he quickly held out his hand to assist her. With a bit of hesitation and resentment, she accepted it, and pulled herself to sit up with his aid. He moved from his place on the table and settled in the seat across from her. She smirked a little, though her eyes still held indignation, when she noticed her surroundings.

"You took me to Starbucks?"

"You needed ice," he lied. Then, he quickly fostered the typical pretense of what a human (therefore, a being without his magical healing powers and what have you) would do in his position. "I think you should go to the hospital."

"I'm fine," she grumbled, teetering off of her seat. "I'm gonna use the bathroom."

When she was gone, he indulged himself in a smirk at her grumbling. Her chipper mood had clearly been put off by her little mishap and his scolding that followed. He wouldn't put it past her for her pride to have been more hurt than her head. She prided herself as being a very confident young woman, and yet gravity was the one to finally do her an indignity and for him to call her out on it.

There was a presence at his side and it presented him with a cup of coffee.

"I didn't order anything," he immediately said without so much of a glance at the server, frowning at the steaming beverage before him.

"Nonsense," sang the attendant in an alarmingly familiar voice. He then occupied Audrey's seat, his face morphing into one more acquainted with. "This one's on me!"

Gabriel.

He seemed to take Castiel's stunned expression as something else. "Sorry, did you want soy milk?"

"Gabriel?" There were a million things he wanted to say and do, but Castiel couldn't help but notice his brother's Starbucks uniform. He nearly smirked. "Father's promoted you I see."

"Oh yeah!" he beamed, tremendously pleased to see that his brother had developed a sense of humor. "He insisted that I expand my skills within the hospitality and tourism field."

"What are you doing here?" He gripped the cell phone in his pocket.

"I like it here," Gabriel declared bluntly. "New Yorkers are _so_ easy to fool. You should try it one day. And don't bother calling Sammy and Deany –" Castiel's hold on his cell automatically released. "– I don't wanna be startin' somethin' here."

"I'm aware of the "something" that Michael Jackson doesn't want to be starting."

"Oh! You caught the reference!" he grinned, appearing exceptionally proud of Castiel. "By the way, nice make-up. David Bowie circa Ziggy Stardust? Ve-ry glam!"

Castiel's gaze turned hostile. "If you are hurting anyone –"

"I'm not hurting anyone!" he denied in a sing-song voice, with a roll of his eyes and flourish of his hand. "I'm a dickish angel, not a dick." He leaned in suddenly; his regard expressive. "Though, are _you_ here to hurt people, Cas? That pretty gal you were with seemed a bit knocked around, don't you think?"

"She slipped on the icy roads," he said, frowning gravely at the memory. "She fractured her head badly, but I healed her before anyone could discern the full damage."

There was a long pause as Castiel recalled the whole incident silently to himself, and Gabriel watched him the entire time, his features mingling with an emotion that aspired to be something more devious than what it actually was.

"You know Cas, if you're not careful, you might just turn into the very stereotype of what an angel is through the average human's mind."

His gaze drifted up to Gabriel with begrudging interest, and did not like the smug smirk he received when he did.

"See, this is why _I'm_ in a great position. _I_ have all the powers of an angel, and _I_ can do whatever _I_ want!"

"At least _I_ don't blow my own horn," he rejoined, his gaze sneering.

"What do _you_ have to be humble about? You're not that great," Gabriel scoffed, shooting him a snobbish regard. "Just remember, you're an angel, sent to do Daddy's will. You're not a fairy godmother - you don't grant wishes and you don't protect humans of your own volition."

"What do you care?" It alarmed Castiel that his aloofness was becoming less sincere and more affected. Perhaps a part of him secretly appreciated a brother bestowing him advice, regardless of its nature, just like the old days.

"You're my brother," he sighed melodramatically with a sniff. He held a fist forward. At Castiel's questioning glance, he nodded approvingly at it. "Come on, man, pound it. We're Gabby and Cassie!"

He raised an eyebrow. "Who _calls_ us that?"

"I know what you're thinking," he said furtively, leaning into him once more. "You want me to get out of here, huh? As much as you may believe that I'm crossing your paths, _you're_ actually crossing _mine_. I live here."

"You _live_ here?"

"Well, I _dwell_ here," he amended hastily, gesturing himself and his surroundings. "And Vegas, actually! They're even easier to swindle than these knickerbockers. And it's perfect! They pass off any weird phenomenons made by my lonesome as a cause of all the alcohol and drugs!" He pressed his hands together in a prayer and pointed his eyes upwards. "Father bless America."

"If you hurt anyone –" His glowering tone drew back Gabriel's attention, as he pulled something out of his pockets, "– I will not hesitate to use _this_ on you."

Gabriel stared with unusual amusement at the item in his hands. "Okay, MacGuyver."

This reaction had Castiel peering down at his hands. Much to his chagrin, he found that he was threatening him with a waffle cone. How on earth did that get in there? Clearing his throat, he then pulled out the correct item. A dagger.

"I meant this."

Gabriel's eyes widened comically, but not because of the weapon.

"Damn, that trench coat... what is it, your TARDIS?"

"I'm not joking," Castiel said sharply.

"Cas - I can call you Cas, right?" Castiel's dispassionate stare didn't change. "This is New York, people get hurt every single day. How will you know if it's me? And –" He held up a pointed finger, highlighting his next point, "– it won't be, because I have no intention of hurting anyone." He then coughed, and it sounded suspiciously like the word "physically".

"I _will_ know. Because we're brothers, right?" Castiel smirked patronizingly. Gabriel bit the inside of his cheek with the same subtext that one would have when rolling their eyes, and leaned back on his chair.

"I sense Ginger Spice is nearly done in the powder room," he said, flippantly inspecting his nails. His eyes glimmered with innuendo when they met with Castiel's. "May I ask what your business is with her? Protecting her from someone, or something? Is she a victim? You and the Tweedles on a case in the Big Apple?"

"The brothers are not with me," he replied, unconsciously mirroring his brother's motion of leaning back on his chair. "I came to New York on my own accord. And she's... a friend."

The pause must have been very obvious, as a smirk emerged immediately.

"You know, if there's one thing I've learned about mankind through my years of interacting with them, is that it is impossible for a man and woman to simply be just friends for the entirety of their relationship." A thought visibly occurred to him. "Unless they're related... but in some states, that doesn't matter. Never bump into a fellow angel in Arkansas, bro. You might elope and get to know them in the biblical sense. Hiyooooo!"

Castiel didn't respond to that. The conversation had run its course and he just wanted Gabriel to leave. He seemed to sense the same as he rose to his feet.

"Don't pussyfoot around the fire, Cas," he urged with finality. "In this case, a fire crotch."

With a closing wink, Gabriel morphed back into his disguise and strolled away with a swagger in his step. As expected, Audrey returned that very moment, evidently in a much better mood than earlier.

Upon noticing Castiel's dazed look, her small smile vanished. "What's wrong?"

Oblivious to the implication, he went on and asked. "What's a fire crotch?"

It would dreadfully appear that she found this incredibly vulgar. His eyes widened when he saw her raise her hand to strike him across the face.

"He said it," he blurted, pointing an incriminatory finger at Gabriel, before she could make the impact.

Strutting up to him like a woman on a mission, she proceeded to slap him instead. Gabriel had the good sense to turn his head upon impact, creating the illusion that her attack had any effect.

"You are sleazy, you know that? I want to speak to your manager!"

Although in disguise, Castiel could still recognize Gabriel's defining smirk. "I _am_ the manager, hotshot."

"UGH!" With an uppity toss of her hair, she spun around and flounced back over to Castiel, who had been watching, much to his own disbelief when he caught himself, with a sense of bizarre interest.

He saw Gabriel angle to one side to catch his eye as he mouthed, "Tattletale!".

She seized Castiel's wrist. "We're leaving!"

The last thing he saw before he was completely yanked out of the café was Gabriel mischievously wagging his eyebrows at him.

* * *

Let's pretend Gabriel never died, yeah? I doubt he'll return later on anyway.

Read and review :D


	14. Jamba Juice Impulse Boost

The date night proposal had become a routine thing for Phil and Claire Foster, and ever since their one disaster date that was the supposedly-exciting-and-compulsive-act-of-stealing-another-couple's-dinner-reservation-and-as-a-result-of-mistaken-identity-being-then-chased-by-mobsters-who-were-out-to-kill-them, they decided that it didn't matter where they went, all that mattered was that they had each other. And something with high calories and/or is generally inappropriate for an evening meal.

Tonight, they chose Jamba Juice in Times Square. They sat at the counters near the entrance, because it enabled the rare occasion where they would sit next to one another in a restaurant (they defy anyone to argue that it isn't one) seeing as how those seats guaranteed an immediate view out the window. Ordinarily, it would be awkward for people to stand outside this very window, with an audience of Jamba Juice consumers sitting right there, staring out the window, unavoidably at them.

However, their presence didn't seem to faze (or was unnoticed by) another couple, standing right there outside this very window the Fosters were looking out of. A man in a tan trench coat and a young woman with so many distinguishable aspects about her appearance that one could not simply identify her by one attribute, were engaged in a heated conversation that wasn't quite yet an argument.

"Claire, hun, look at these two," Phil said, nodding towards them.

"What am I looking at?"

"No I mean, what's their story?"

It was a favorite pastime of theirs to point out other couples and determine the nature of their relationship. It would often lead to the both of them playing the roles of these couples, and creating voices for them. Basically, mocking them.

"Oh, okay." Claire studied the stern albeit handsome man, and then the young lady with hair as red as Mr Incredible's suit. They appeared to be doing their best not to let their conversation fall into a squabble, even though they were indeed disagreeing on something.

"Okay, let's see, uh... Wall Street guy goes on a date with one of Santa's elves - you know, like from Macy's –"

"Uh huh."

"– he only asked her out because he gets off from the whole look –"

"Sure, sure."

"– _aaand_ he wants to take her home to have sex but she insists that her shift is starting soon."

"Good one. Okay." The trench coat man stared intently at the young woman, and appeared to be speaking in a very firm yet placid manner. Phil cleared his throat, and in a deep, husky voice he assumed the man had, he said, "Christmas Carol, I have been busting my ass on Wall Street all week - can't a guy get a little somethin' on the side with the holiday spirit?"

As Claire stifled a giggle, the young woman then appeared to be protesting very animatedly.

"Dammit Bud," Claire said in a high, Southern accent, "why'd you have to ask me out on a Saturday night? I'd have loved to come to your apartment and –" The young woman then pointed to the back of her head. "– have you stare at the back of my head all night long."

Phil nearly lost it right there and then. The trench coat man then appeared to be trying for a compromise, with insistent eyes.

"Please Christmas Carol," Phil cried, "let me fill your stocking!"

The Fosters snorted with immature laughter into their smoothies, but immediately shushed when they saw that they had garnered the attention of the couple outside.

"Oh crap, look away, be cool, be cool." Claire proceeded to stuff her face with the rest of her sourdough pretzel, while Phil found great interest in the ceiling tiles.

Outside, Castiel's inquisitive gaze at the couple by the window lingered longer than Audrey's, realizing belatedly that they were talking about them, and thus wondering what had caused their eruption of laughter. His attention was pulled back to her when she spoke.

"I'm _fine,_ Castiel," she insisted for the millionth time, ambling away from the window with him following. "It's sweet that you care, but really, I don't need to go home just yet."

"If not for your injury –"

"Which doesn't hurt!"

"– then on account of the late hour."

She scoffed in disbelief, but not with malice. "You want me to go home because you think it's past my bedtime?"

"Well it _is_ midnight," he observed as though this was obvious.

"All the best things happen at midnight!"

"All the best things _stop_ being the best at midnight," he flatly corrected.

Her features colored with contemplation for a beat. "Oh yeah..."

"Go home," he repeated with a determined nod.

"No!" she shouted babyishly, underlining her refusal with a childish jump.

It was that jump that almost deemed fatal once more when her feet slipped on the slippery concrete upon impact, but Castiel was prepared for it this time. She fell back into his waiting arm, her head just inches from the ground, and to any passersby, it looked as if he was dipping her in a dance. They stayed like that for a while, until he softly spoke.

"You are most definitely going home."

"Fine," she begrudgingly yielded, gently shoving him away once he pulled her back up. "But you're coming home with me."

His eyes flashed back to her as if she had just propositioned him. Wait a minute... did she?

"What?"

"Walk me home!" she clarified, innocent to what had ran through his mind and thus composing him.

"Can't you travel by those... communal yellow vehicles?" he asked, pointing vaguely at the numerous taxicabs that rolled by, their tires sloshing soundly against the wet road.

Mirth crossed her face and receded very quickly, before she soberly replied, "I'd prefer to use these two long limbs attached to my hips."

"You're mocking me."

"Yeah!" she grinned.

With a defeated sigh, he finally relented. "I will walk you home."

Her eyes and her tone were suddenly cunning. "_Okay_..." As her stance began to change, her ploy became transparent.

"And _you_ will _walk_ too," he indicated, eying her sharply. Her smile gradually fell into a pout as he specified, "No running, no jumping, no skipping, no rolling, no crawling, no sliding, or anything of comparable meaning."

A sly grin reemerged. "So that means I can still..." Frown. "I can still... but I can... or, or maybe –"

"You're not going to find a loophole," he smirked.

"Well, I _was_ going to say that I'll moonwalk instead," she said tartily, "but then I remembered that I can't moonwalk for the life of me."

Castiel gestured for her to lead the way, wordlessly doing so to deny her the chance to ramble on aimlessly. She made a face at him, to which he almost returned, and proceeded onwards.

For several blocks, they walked in silence. Though, by the Winter Garden Theater, he began to wonder if she was silently fuming at him. It was either that or she was allowing him the leeway to digest the rest of the city on his own. If she hadn't somehow made it such a struggle to concentrate, he would have taken that opportunity. She was like a puzzling piece of art that one would stare at for ages, hoping to fathom its essence.

It wasn't until they were across the road from the Ed Sullivan Theater (underneath it read _"LATE SHOW with David Letterman"_, whatever that meant) and they had passed yet another Jamba Juice joint, when he found that he may not be alone with those sentiments.

"Why are you staring at me?" he asked.

"How did you know?"

"I can see your reflection in the window," he said, pointing to the glass windows they were passing. She smiled bashfully at him through the reflection.

"Strictly speaking, I was staring at your hair."

They finally turned a corner after journeying so many blocks straight ahead.

"I don't understand everyone's fascination with my hair," he mused aloud.

Shrug. "You have a bedhead."

His bemused frown demanded clarification.

"Just-rolled-out-of-bed hair."

"... I'm not understanding –"

"Sex hair!"

"What?"

"Oh forget it!" she yelled. "You don't know much, do you Castiel?"

He bridled at her words. "I know many things."

"It seems to me that you only know facts, not knowledge, per se." Was there a difference? he wondered. His expression seemed to ask just that, and she caught it. "Knowledge encompasses skill and experience too."

"Does one have to experience certain things to truly know something?"

"Yeah! For example, you may know for a fact that a tomato is a fruit, but you would need the knowledge to know that it simply does not belong in a fruit salad. Or you could say..." She scoured the scene around them, eventually settling on a car that was driving by. "You could say that _that_ car is very fast. That could be a fact. How do you know for sure?"

He nodded slowly, beginning to understand. "So you need to experience things for confirmation?"

She frowned at his words. "You make it sound so strategic. Experience and understanding is there for you to to take, but it shouldn't have to be a chore. You should rely on impulse."

"I should be impulsive," he concluded emphatically.

She nodded, a smile growing with approval. "There you go! Try it. See how you feel."

There was a long pause.

"What do I do?"

She had the grace not to laugh, though her lips quirked. "That's the thing, you can't rely on someone else's impulses to dictate what _you_ do."

Free will was essentially impulse, but he had always attributed "free will" to acts of a much larger scale - say, rebelling. But little things, little things that relied on a curious little thing called impulse... he was never one to dwell on minor concerns.

He began to frown at his difficulty. "I'm not used to that sort of ..."

"Independence?"

"In a way," he guiltily acknowledged. Guilty because owed so much to God, and there was an ungrateful undertone to his answer.

Her frown was the longest one yet, and he recognized the significance of it instantly. Her thoughts had gone straight to the million dollar mystery that was his job.

"Seriously Castiel, they've gotta reinvoke whatever labor laws they have at your work," she quipped cynically. He smiled and wondered if God was listening.

Her eyes burned with curiosity suddenly. "Your job is no-go area in terms of discussion topics, isn't it?"

"It would be wise to disregard it." It was an answer to both Audrey and himself. To say that the suggestion to reveal his identity to her hadn't presented itself lately would be a lie.

"Alright," she retreated lightly, though her eyes remained heavy with an unfed curiosity. "What do you want to talk about?" Her expression lit up delightfully. "This is your chance to be impulsive! C'mon, what's the first thing that comes to mind?"

Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it.

"Angels."

Somewhere in the world, Dean was clapping slowly.

"You're not looking for an argument, are you?"

"No." Pause. "But considering our differing viewpoints on the matter, I presume we would eventually fall into disagreement."

"Well, I say we must agree to disagree."

But he was _right!_

"Very well," he murmured, his jaw nearly clenching with indignation.

"I don't believe in angels," she stated swiftly. "Surprise, surprise. I'll humor you and ask: do _you?_"

"Absolutely," he replied a little too quickly. "Angels aren't how you imagine them to be."

This seemed to strike her personally. "And how do _you_ think _I_ imagine them to be, Castiel?"

He recalled a conversation with Sam and Dean about the general human conception of an angel, and how wrong it was.

"With... fluffy wings and playing harps," he said, shuddering internally at the memory.

"Oh, I'm not that skeptical," she banished, waving a hand about. "I believe that angels - _if they existed_ - would have advanced into the modern age as much as we have. I imagine that they would dress like us, talk like us, etcetera, etcetera."

"Then what has convinced you that they don't exist?"

"Because the world is in shambles, and nothing seems to be getting better."

The urge to grab her by the arms and shake some sense into her had never been stronger.

"We overcame the Apoca–" The image of Dean swiping his hand against his throat in a cutting motion flashed before his eyes. "... the _catastrophes_ of 2010, which many believed to be the end of the world." At this, she looked up at him, and his gaze darkened meaningfully. "_Something_ stopped that. Do you think "science" stopped that?"

His allusion to their earliest conversation (which seemed _so_ long ago, he realized wistfully) nearly inspired a smile from her, but the disdain in his words was detected first.

"Yes," she confidently answered, "and luck."

Although his intense gaze did not change, he was sure she could feel him glowing with disbelief.

"So everything about the world is defined by science and luck, in your eyes?"

"In _my_ eyes?" Just when he thought he had offended her, she began to smile wryly. "I'm not the only one who sees it, Castiel."

They lapsed into a silence. While it would seem that the conversation had ended, this silence was merely a lull to Castiel, who decided to abandon that route and opt for another.

"If they were real," he began, his question already tasting sour to him, "what would you say to an angel?"

Pause. "I'd say... I'd ask what happened. Where were you? Why couldn't you prevent all this? Where were you when this or that happened?"

"Angels don't work for humans. They work for God." His tone was very clearly referring to himself, but she failed to detect it.

"Okay, well, memo to God: query, all of the above!"

"You want answers."

"We _all_ want answers," she said with an eloquent gaze, "and we're never going to get them. Either God doesn't care, or he doesn't exist. I choose to believe the latter, because I refuse to believe that my existence is a product of his that he chooses to ignore. I don't want to think of myself as an old Barbie doll that he doesn't care about anymore."

To that extent, he was of the same mind, recalling his learning of God's supposed negligence those couple of years ago.

"I refuse to believe that our Creator is so... neglecting!" she lamented. "To me, belief in God is an expression of powerlessness. No one is ever really independent if they are religious."

"Refusing to believe does not equate to disbelief," he cornered.

"I'm stubborn, okay?"

"God loves you."

"You are the human epitome of a Christian bumper sticker, Castiel."

"God wants you to learn, he wants you to find him."

"So life's a game? He wants to play hide and seek?"

"It's a test of faith."

His brisk responses were evidently beginning to wear her patience thin, and she stopped walking.

"Have you, Castiel, _found_ God?" she interrogated, searching his impervious eyes as though she could extract a straight answer that way. "Or were you simply born and bred to believe that somewhere out there is a higher power, who won't show his face or tend to his creations?"

It was agonizing to keep the answers, _all _the answers to the questions that undoubtedly burned in her mind, suppressed. He wanted nothing more than to set the record straight about everything. As much as he enjoyed her, she was so wrong about so many things. Yet there was still _something_ thwarting his resolve to end the charade: a profound curiosity for her and an endless supply of pennies for her thoughts.

The answers to an infinite number of questions, and a confession, clung to the tip of his tongue. He stared sharply at her, his only method of restraining all this in a dignified way.

It looked as though she had wisened up to his evasion and refused to let it go that easily, but eventually she sighed and her demanding gaze faded.

"Hey," she stroked his arm soothingly, "we can talk about something else if this is distressing you." When his regard softened, she smiled sadly. "I admire your spirit, Castiel. There should be more people around like you. Passionate, but fair. Righteous, but forgiving." For a long moment, she just smiled, but then something behind her eyes clicked in recognition. "If I didn't know any better," she began lowly, somewhat still immersed in her thoughts, "I'd say you were an angel."

Castiel cursed loudly in Enochian in his head, and he felt the stars frown down at him admonishingly. _Watch your language!_ they all seemed to convey at once.

Then began a _very_ interesting change in atmosphere. She blinked once and her aura changed dramatically; it was as if she swept everything off of his desk to hook his attention in a "different" light.

He watched her, almost voyeuristically, when she took a very bold step towards him. Was she genuinely onto him? Or was she just being playful?

"Are _you_ an angel, Castiel?" she whispered, in a tone usually reserved for questions of a more provocative nature. If it weren't for what she was actually asking, his eyes would have closed at the sound of it. When she took another aching step forward, they virtually breathed each other's air. What was that supposed problem with "personal space" the Winchesters were often vocal about? He was beginning to understand. Though, he doubted "problem" was the correct word in this context. Her distance, or extreme lack thereof, wasn't exactly disagreeable.

"Because if you are –" He had never known the rush of having a chill run down his spine until just then, when her smoldering eyes flickered downwards for what he wished was longer than a second. "– I may have to kick your ass and give you the cold shoulder."

Oh. She wasn't onto him. She was flirting!

_Well... duh,_ the stars seemed to say.

Only one answer was expected of him, and considering how close she had become and the way she gazed willfully at him through her eyelashes, she had _one_ action in mind for him when he finally said it.

A kiss, perchance?

And as Dean once told him, if humans really, really wanted something real bad, they lie.

"No."

She grinned brilliantly, seemingly pleased to finally hear that word, and although he lied, when he felt her gloved hand fit perfectly against his jawline and her gaze fell to his lips, he knew God had already forgiven him. As she slid up onto her toes, a stirring emotion too young to identify had him inclining into her, all divine cognition forsaken. Her eyes fluttered close and he began to do the same - it was difficult to concentrate, knowing that the stars were watching as if it were some kind of soap opera - and for a split second, he thought he felt the faintest brush against his lips, though it could have been the warm caress of her vanilla-scented breath –

A nearby horn beeped and they parted like the Red Sea. Several stars died out from intense paroxysms of rage.

A Yankees cap poked out of a cab's window, which had pulled up beside them, and it was then that the angel knew he hated the Yankees with the fire of a thousand suns.

"You folks need a ride?"

"NO," they answered in unison. Castiel's bitterness was as palpable as the bite of the Winter air, while Audrey seemed to have developed a sort of charming post-almost-kiss demureness.

With an acknowledging nod, the cab proceeded onwards, with Castiel scowling at the tail of it the entire way. He turned back to Audrey, who was already five feet away from him and had a fist held to her lips as she curbed her laughter. Even in the darkness, he could tell she was blushing.

"What's so funny?"

She caught his eye and a chuckle immediately escaped her. When it appeared that it was enough to appease her impulse to laugh, she dropped her hand and shook her head.

"Nothing," she said serenely, moving back towards him. It was different now; the sensuality of her demeanor was gone and reappeared was her innocent playfulness. It was affirmed when she looped her arm around his.

Neither said anything, and he understood from her expressive glance that they should continue with their walk as agreed upon. Castiel reluctantly followed in step, feeling dreadfully unsatisfied.

* * *

If anyone has seen _Date Night_, starring Steve Carell and Tina Fey, that opening scene would make a lot more sense. If not, just YouTube "Date Night" and "what's their story"; you won't be disappointed, lolol.

Read and review :)


	15. Walk Walk, Fashion Baby

What was so spectacular about a kiss anyway? Physical contact should not be arousing - excuse me, that's perhaps not the best word to use - _triggering_ such a confusion of emotions in him: thrill, delight, apprehension, not to mention the libido he didn't know he had, chaotically tangled together like a bird's nest. In fact, an angel should not be responding to physical contact altogether. Such contact was never meant to be attached to anything more than its purpose; punching an adversary for example. Even that didn't require so much of a thought like _"I sincerely hope this act of physical contact hurts you!"_

Then again, a kiss was never an act he imagined himself doing. Especially not in the context he encountered. Kissing a crossroads demon had been a more likely prospect.

Nevertheless, this thieved kiss plagued him for the entire journey along West 54th, which was taken in complete silence, save for that notional "buzz".

There was this elusive "buzz" between them now and it was curious as to how quickly it evolved; after all, it had only been about two weeks since he met her. He watched her from the corners of his eyes; she was so maddeningly mellow! Impervious to the buzz, that's what she was.

It seemed that she was the only person to provoke his inherent male sensibility in an otherwise asexual spirit. She made him susceptible and rather willing to any potential acts of seduction... he was certain there was a less technical way of phrasing this, but God forbid if he ever asked Dean about it. Maybe he'll ask Sam...

The stars sniggered at his mental strife. _Chaos and strife are the roots of all confusion,_ they recited accommodatingly. This wasn't a Bible passage, and frankly, it didn't help him regardless. The angel was convinced they were just mocking him now.

All such thoughts vanished when they turned into a very familiar street.

"Fifth Avenue," he murmured under his breath, his stride slowing upon remembrance as Audrey walked ahead.

She glanced back to him in surprise. "Eh?"

"I've been here before," he said, following her over the crosswalk, "I walked down this very road." Their eyes met. "The day I met you."

Her nonchalance faded when a smile emerged. "Interesting."

A few blocks ahead was the Fifth Avenue Star, suspended over an intersection. He couldn't recall it being there a couple of weeks ago, or at least not gorgeously illuminated like it was now. Rapt, he tilted his head and gazed admiringly at it; it was no Rockefeller Christmas Tree but it was still spellbinding. There was a sudden urge to reach out and touch it the way a cat would bat a ball of yarn. Then, remembering he had company, he found that Audrey was experiencing the same, except she was staring through the Zara shop window.

Walking along Fifth seemed to rekindle her bubbly attitude, much to his surprising relief. She bounced to and from store windows and ogled whatever was on display, but never succeeding to enter any of the ones still open at this hour, as Castiel had a fairly firm but not damaging grip on her wrist.

"Home, now," he chided gently, tugging her away while her other hand groped the air in vain, yearning to grab the Escada blazer in the display window.

It was in front of the Gucci Store at Trump Tower that they stopped again, but this time, she stared through the window exhibiting men's clothing. He didn't even want to ask.

She looked at him, then back at the window. Then at him. Then the window. Then at his _shoes_. Then the window. Then his shoes again, and lingering there.

"What kind of shoes are they?"

Puzzled, he followed her gaze downwards. "Uh... black ones?"

His answer, taken as sarcasm, was met with an impatient quirk of her eyebrow, which receded when she saw that he was being serious.

"Hmm." The way she then stared at his shoes with such a profound thoughtfulness had him feeling self-conscious about them. First the trench coat, then his face in general (well, he had asked for that one), then the hair, now this? What was next - his tie?

Her features suddenly grew with alarming enthusiasm. "Let me see!"

In a flash, she was on her knees and trying to pry his foot off of the ground. There was that buzz again, thankfully without its bee to make it obvious.

With wide eyes, he hissed, "What are you – ?"

"Lift up your damn foot!

He yielded immediately and, balancing on one foot, he cast a paranoid gaze around while she examined his shoe. Passing men stared on with envy while women giggled. He smiled awkwardly at one, acting as if this was a standard gesture to do in public.

"Please stand up," he said in a minimal voice, averting his eyes anywhere but down.

"But I'm not the real Slim Shady."

"I don't under--" There was no time for that! "You can look at my shoes _later_," he made a bewildered face at his own words, "if you must."

"No, I want to know if you're wearing the ones in the window!"

His fluster was put on pause and temporarily replaced with curiosity, and he peered over at the window. The headless mannequins wore shoes just like his - at least that's what he gathered from one glance.

"You could have just asked."

Immediately, she looked up at him inquisitively. "Are you?"

What did _he_ know about shoes?

"... I don't know."

Curiosity fell from her face. "This is why I don't ask." And just when she was about to continue with her examination, she did a double take. "Does this make you uncomfortable?"

Her innocent gaze was _almost_ convincing. He shot her a dark look that warned her that he saw through her facade, to which she broke by smirking impishly up at him. He sighed impatiently, his fluster rapidly creeping up on him once more.

"I'm trying to get you home safely and you're..." He made a vague gesture at her. "– going down on your knees."

"So? Isn't that what you people do when you want to talk to the Almighty?"

His scowl that followed screamed "Don't even go there", to which she grinned at.

"I'm sorry, that was below the belt." She paused. Then she laughed.

Much to his dismay, the double entendre did not fly over his head. He groaned, "Please stop talking."

"_You_ shut up and lift those calves!"

Punching a specific joint in his knee, his leg jerked forward that required measure more.

He watched her, his impatience melting into a sort of bleak sense of amusement, sooner than he'd like to admit. Earlier that day, he assisted the Winchesters in exorcising (or "ganked" as Dean colloquially puts it) an extremely dangerous demon in Fremont County, Wyoming. Now, this.

"Calvin Klein," she finally determined, "Elton Oxfords. Not the ones in the window."

"How can you tell?"

"Castiel –" He helped pull her to her feet, and they continued their walk. "– you don't live near Fifth Avenue and _not_ learn a thing or two about designer shoes."

Something about her then clicked in his mind.

It must have been noticeable, as she then asked, "What are you thinking?"

He stared at her, his eyes calculating, wondering if his observation would be found discourteous. "You are one of those women who enjoy shopping."

"So?" There was an undertone of offense in her voice, despite her smile. "Do you think I'm superficial?"

He paused, but was wise enough to know that too-long a pause would be taken as a "yes".

"I don't know enough about you to make judgment," he replied vaguely. "However, considering your profession, I'd assume you'd have to be concerned about outward appearances."

All traces of annoyance vanished and was replaced with genuine consideration. "Hm. I wouldn't say I'm superficial, 'cause that denotes negativity. I'm ... image-conscious?" she tried with a shrug. "And yeah, like you said, I could never be an artist if I wasn't. I can't take shots of inner beauty."

He nodded in comprehension.

"Besides, most people have the gift of sight, so why not give them something to look at? You don't use your sense of taste for something disgusting, so why should our eyes have to suffer?"

The nodding stopped, and he frowned. "Now you sound superficial."

At this, she looked at him; she didn't so much look at him as much as she skimmed through her previous words in her mind while staring in his general direction. Eventually, her brows puckered in realization.

"I know," she muttered ruefully. "I don't know if that's because I'm a photographer, or because I'm inherently a shallow New Yorker. You don't think differently of me, do you?"

"No." He knew her warm smile would disappear the moment he added, "I've always thought that about you."

"What? You've always thought I was superficial?"

"Not superficial, image-conscious," he said, pulling out her earlier used term. While she no longer appeared insulted, she still seemed unconvinced of this supposed fact. "You put effort into your appearance. You colored your hair an unnatural shade of red, you overindulge yourself with eyeliner –" Just as his observations had her automatically touching her hair and her eyes without conscious thought, his gaze flitted downwards. "– and since your clothing style is just as unconventional as the furniture back in the record store, I'd assume they fell into the same high price range."

Her chest swelled proudly. "Oh, they did!"

He continued, "Your hair is unusually healthy for chemically pigmented hair so I presume you go to great lengths to take care of it –"

"It's just lather, rinse and repeat –"

"– your nails are painted with glitter –"

"How did you know that? I'm wearing gloves!"

"– and your eyelashes are fake."

From what he assumed was an involuntary reaction, she blinked furiously. "Are not!"

"Yes they are," he nodded, his eyes insistent. He allowed a hint of knowing smile to cross his face. "I was close enough to notice them earlier."

This both silenced her and evoked a blush to spread across her face. Her smile tightened, thwarting off the laugh that had threatened earlier. Why she found the whole incident to be so funny, he didn't know, but nonetheless, he continued.

"And if you weren't so image-conscious, you'd be wearing shoes that didn't have you slipping all over the place."

"But they're Louis Vuitton!"

And with perfect timing, she indicated the window they were currently passing, and there they were: her boots, in two different colors, black and white, in the display window of the Louis Vuitton store. His first reaction was surprise; surprise that she could afford such a luxury. His second reaction, a bleak "That's not good enough" face, was responded with her making a face at him.

They continued onwards and around another corner in silence, and it wasn't until he noticed that she was no longer pressing her face against display windows, not even so much of a glance, that he spoke.

"Have I offended you?"

_"No."_ Her defensive tone made it very clear that she was lying.

"I wasn't criticizing you," he added, his gaze mystified. "Your efforts are very representative of you and I don't want to be responsible for it changing."

A flattered smile slowly grew across her face. "Really? And what does all _this_," she gestured herself entirely, "represent?"

The opportunity to look at her up and down was presented to him, and he took it.

"Eccentricity," came his answer.

She hummed approvingly.

"And sexuality."

His words surprised him as much as they surprised her.

_"What?"_

There was no way of getting out of this one. He decided to take comfort in the fact that he was the one startling the other in this conversation.

"You're wearing a skirt in Winter."

"So - wha - bu--" she spluttered, struggling with words; he nearly grinned. Now she would see what it's like when the shoe was on the other foot!

Her nose wrinkled with indignation. "With-with-with_ stockings!_ It's fashion!"

"It's unwise."

She waved him off dismissively. "You just don't understand fashion!"

As if on the cue, a bus passed before them where they stood on a street corner, waiting to cross. On the face of the bus, it had a monochromatic advertisement for a pretentious designer brand, with a man wearing something extremely similar to Castiel, except with an undone tie. The model, of course, looked nothing like him, and more like Zac Efron with an obscene amount of airbrushing, with that typical model expression of looking directly into the sun, but nonetheless, it was a close enough resemblance to have them swapping glances. Castiel began to smirk when she glowered at him playfully.

"Don't even!" she sassed, holding a silencing finger up to his face as they began to cross. "And look, I'm not wearing a skirt because I think it's sexy! Okay? It's because it went with my outfit!"

"I'm confident that you have dozens of other clothes."

"Oh, you are such a typical male!" she laughed. "Having dozens of clothes is different from having something to wear!"

"How so?"

"It's like... cooking! You might have a lot of ingredients in the cupboard but you can't just put a random selection together and call it a good meal. And everyday," she gestured her attire extravagantly, "I'm aiming for gourmet."

He nodded, silently appreciating her metaphors. "That makes sense."

"I know it does!" she said triumphantly.

"You are a very –" he looked at her up and down, to ensure his metaphor was understood, "– unorthodox chef."

That could have been taken either way, and thankfully, she took it as a compliment, as intended. "Thanks!"

His sweeping glance had stopped indicatively on her skirt. "Couldn't you substitute one of the ingredients with another that is healthier but provides a taste just a decent?"

She narrowed her eyes. "I understand your metaphor, but what are you implying by saying "healthier"?" She tugged at the hem of her skirt, knowing his gaze lingered there. "Do you consider _this _unhealthy?"

"It's Winter," he pointed out.

"It's fashion!"

"That's hardly an argument," he countered as they approached another crosswalk.

"It's probably too extensive a field for you to understand," she scorned, sashaying across the road without him, but not without sending him a teasing look over her shoulder.

For a long moment, he just stood there, indulging in the rather pleasant effects of their verbal game of cat and mouse. With a charmed smile, he briskly followed her.

"See!" She grabbed him once he was within arm's reach and pointed surreptitiously at a woman across the street. _"She's_ wearing a skirt!"

He followed her regard and indeed, there was a woman wearing a business suit, a pencil skirt that hugged her form to match, briefcase under the grip of her manicured claws, strutting with sheer confidence and with a face of vainglory - she probably fired someone today - as her pumps clicked and clacked loudly against the pavement.

This diversion had him colliding into a fellow pedestrian, who was walking the opposite way.

"Yo c'mon man, watch y'self!" cried the man before Castiel could apologize. This black man merely shook his head and scoffed something about "white muthas" as he wandered off with a rhythm in his step, and resumed browsing through his iPod.

He turned back to Audrey, who was laughing. "And that is why you don't leer!"

"I wasn't leering."

"Uh huh."

"I was... trying to see if she was wearing stockings like you."

"Was she?" she probed challengingly.

Much to his dismay, she had caught him there.

"I don't know."

A laugh escaped her. "You can tell if I'm wearing fake eyelashes, but you can't tell if some random girl is wearing stockings?"

"As I said earlier," he regarded her eloquently from the corners of his eyes, "I was close enough to notice them."

"Ah yes," she grinned in that brilliant way she did before their little incident that never happened, her eyes gleaming with recognition. "About that –" She then stopped him from walking any further by standing in front of him. "– are we gonna address that?"

The buzz returned. He hadn't expected her to raise that topic so explicitly. He immediately decided to allow their moment to fall into another silent stretch (which, who knows, could lead to another thing or two), but when she began to giggle, he just had to ask.

"Why is this humorous to you?"

"I have no idea!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. "I don't get embarrassed, so I guess that sort of thing manifests differently for me."

"I believe I can relate to that," he said thoughtfully.

She furrowed her brow skeptically and asked, "You don't get embarrassed?"

"No, I don't believe so."

She eyed him in a way that plainly conveyed her doubt. "I find that very hard to believe. You always look uncomfortable."

"Uncomfortable is different from mortification."

"Oh yeah? What about when you bumped into George earlier tonight and insulted him by speaking in broken English?"

"I'd say I was more regretful than humiliated."

"I see..."

Something wicked sparkled in her eye, to which he immediately matched with suspicion.

Suddenly, just as a portly, bald man waddled past, Audrey slapped this man on the backside like lightening. The man whipped around in alarm, and just when Castiel was about to question her about it, she yelled:

_"Castiel!_ What the hell are you doing?"

His eyes flashed over at her, scandalized, and then darted to the stranger, his eyes wide with paranoia. His mouth opened and nothing emerged; he only watched as this man sized him up, shook his head, and grumbled "Goddamn queer..." as he trudged off.

Words still failed him as he watched the man toddle away, and his horrified gape fell into a mortified grimace, directed back at Audrey, who was smiling kittenishly.

"I'm sorry!" she laughed. "Here..." As a gesture of remorse, she pressed her lips against her two fingers, and then reached out and touched them against his own. Like magic, his scowl faded into a rather dazed stare.

Then, with a jolt, she chimed, "Well, goodnight!" and began to stroll away.

Figurative kiss forgotten, he frowned. "Where are you going?"

"You walked me home," she said, gesturing the building behind her.

"This is a shopping complex."

"No, it's a plaza, up until the 30th floor," she clarified, "and the rest are condos."

These words drew his gaze upwards. Bloomberg Tower loomed over them and apparently she lived up there. Designer shoes was one thing, but to live _here?_ His gaze returned to hers, his expression unchanging, which she took as doubt.

"What, you don't believe me?" she asked. "Did you assume I lived in some dingy old flat somewhere?"

"Yes" ran through his mind, but he responded only with a vague shrug. With a smile, she offered her hand. "Come on then, I'll show you, it's a great view." He eyed her gloved hand warily, and then peered up at her with an equal amount of wariness, to which she chuckled at. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna try to seduce you, but I warn you, the view of the New York City might."

* * *

Looking back at this chapter, I'm glad I warned that this story has no plot; this is going absolutely nowhere, lol.

Also, if you haven't already noticed, I changed the title of the story to a more modern allusion to New York City. _"These Vagabond Shoes"_ was a line from Frank Sinatra's _"New York, New York"_, but I decided to change it to Jay-Z's anthemic ode to the city, _"Empire State of Mind"_. Hope this didn't cause any confusion!

Read and review :D


	16. Daddy Issues

Of all the things Castiel could potentially enjoy with the limited recreational capability he had, riding an elevator ranked somewhere around the bottom. Not only were they slow and confining (like an automobile!) but one had no concept of how fast you were moving or where you were. The little light up buttons did _not_ satisfy, despite what people may argue.

Surely humans could fathom a way to teleport – it wasn't _that_ hard! By the formula of – what was his name? – Albert Einstein, energy equals mass times the speed of light squared, which in the inverse would naturally be mass times the speed of light squared equals energy, _therefore,_ all humans had to do was convert themselves, a mass, into electro-magnetic energy, control said energy so that the initial conversion would not lead to a dangerous release equivalent to a thousand one-megatron hydrogen bombs, send the converted energy through radio waves to their desired location, revert this energy back to a mass and voilà, a simple teleportation.

A _ding! _roused him from his rumination, and the elevator doors parted for a young woman with a gym towel slung over her shoulders. If it weren't for her superfluous efforts to advance her looks, this woman could have been very beautiful. The twenty-ninth floor's uptempo music flowed into the elevator cart as she boarded, and retreated once the doors shut.

"Marilyn," acknowledged Audrey, in a mocking tone that was still cordial enough to account for friendliness if challenged.

"Audrey," the platinum blonde responded in kind, tossing her immaculate Goldilocks-style ringlets.

Not only did Castiel sense that this was a standard exchange between them, but he also felt that his presence inhibited their routine of flinging around catty remarks portrayed as good nature. Perhaps this was a good thing where their welfare was concerned.

The necessity for formal introductions hung in the air, which Audrey reluctantly attended to.

"Marilyn, this is my friend, Castiel; Castiel, this is my neighbor, Marilyn."

Out shot Marilyn's eager hand with a _whip! _to which he stiffly accepted.

"Hiii!" she trilled, with an extravagant warmth he suspected was never presented to Audrey. There was a gap the size of Colorado between her teeth when a rather frightening, red rimmed smile smeared across her face. "Smile" really wasn't the best word. She was really one of those people who just shouldn't look happy. He strained his own in response.

The three lapsed into a difficult silence filled only by inconvenient elevator music and the occasional cough or clearing of a throat.

At long last, the glorious sound of another _ding!_ chimed. There was a sudden stampede as all three strove to leave first. They paused immediately, exchanged hastily drawn glances of formality, before Marilyn flounced out with her nose to the ceiling, with Castiel and Audrey following.

"Goodniiight!" Audrey sang out in that mocking-but-not voice of hers. The blonde acknowledged it with a "Whatever!" flick of her hand without so much of a glance back at them.

Her plastic smile remained as she furtively added between her teeth, "You gap-toothed bitch!" and then pulled out her keys.

"I notice there's friction between the two of you," he observed, after the door on the opposite side of the room slammed so violently, a picture frame crashed onto the floor. His wry tone earned him an equally wry smile.

"She's still miffed I got the apartment she wanted," she muttered. After a jingle of keys, her door was unlocked and they stepped into the darkness of her foyer. "I don't see the fuss! Our apartments are on the same side, we share the same view; well, one of them, at least, and —"

His attention took flight the moment she switched the master light on. No way could she afford this place.

Without going into redundant detail, her home was huge – not Buckingham Palace huge, but fitting for a family and therefore seemingly huge for a single person. It achieved being stylistically modern while still bearing the impression of a "home". And then there was the stunning skyline of New York City, crystal clear through her living room's floor to ceiling windows, which was another story.

Her grand piano caught his eye within the otherwise typical contemporary-style living room.

Sequins and other shiny things peppered the glossy veneer, and was adorned with graffiti written in what he suspected was lipstick. A stack of vinyl records supported a broken leg, and on the top surface were playing cards, a pair of scissors, a bowler hat, a champagne flute, a disco ball, a stiletto heel without its mate, and rolls of photographic film … this piano was certainly the life of the party.

Her voice, which had become lost in the kitchen, reemerged when she joined him. "— and then there's the case of the big ward full of porcelain gravy boats, but you get the idea."

Turning away his eyes from the piano, he blinked as though he had just discovered her. "What are you talking about?"

"Were you even listening to me?"

"No, I wasn't."

There was an ironic note in his voice, which implied it should have been obvious as to why. A telephone began to ring, closing their directionless conversation for them.

"Go! Go enjoy the view!" she encouraged, taking his elbow and hurrying him towards the terrace. Halfway, she abandoned him and scurried towards the source of the ringing.

Like a child needing their chaperone, Castiel merely turned around and remained where he was, waiting patiently.

"Hello, Audrey speaking? No, I haven't checked my messages…"

The sight of her talking into a pink stiletto heel had him frowning, dumbfounded, until he realized it was actually a cordless telephone, stylized as a shoe. Trust her to purchase something like that.

"—_ what?_ That's not supposed to go in there! … Well, make it fit!" Her words earned her a very odd look from him, to which she grinned at before covering the phone's mouthpiece. "Don't you love out of context remarks?"

Then, when her hand flew up to wildly shoo him away, he resignedly turned and proceeded out onto the terrace.

The midnight skyline of Manhattan was a spectacle he had never encountered before. "The City that Never Sleeps" was indeed a very fitting name; it lived up to its name as perfectly as Heaven and Hell lived up to theirs. The city was an individual in itself; no one was ever really alone if one could still hear the traffic, or glimpse the flickering lights of a skyscraper on the horizon. How very far away the Winchesters and their journeys to quiet modest towns seemed from here.

Minutes ticked by.

Suddenly, the vastness of the city registered with him, stirring his divine cognition. Demons. There couldn't _not_ be any demons here. Nothing about this city immunized it from such a threat. Either they've assimilated with the humans or their attacks have yet to eventuate. It was something he decided, then, to investigate. And maybe, just maybe, Gabriel would help…

The back of his head burned. Turning around, his eyes met with Audrey's for what felt like the first time, as she lingered serenely against the door frame. Her hyperactive temperament seemed so distant all of a sudden. He couldn't be sure if the admiring glint in her eyes was attributable to the view of the city or the view of, well, him. And there was an odd but not entirely unpleasant undertone of romance in the air; acknowledged by neither as it floated between them, as palpable as the cold.

"You said you were a struggling photographer," he aired, slowly advancing on her. "Was that a lie?"

"I _am_ a struggling photographer," she retorted, turning and heading back inside, "I'm… struggling to get known."

Especially with her back to him, he got the impression that she was being intentionally cryptic, which was rather trying but scored the targeted reaction out of him. Although he briefly chose to deny her the satisfaction of being asked about it, he remembered the designer clothes, the piano, the skyline, the apartment, the everything… his curiosity got the better of him.

"Are you… wealthy?"

This prompted a sheepish smile, confirming it. "I prefer the term financially inclined."

Taken by this new enlightenment, he let out an astonished breath. A second ago, she was the quirky human girl. Now, she was the human girl who was apparently associated with one of the finest cultures of the human race. She seemed to sense him regarding her in a different light, and began to fidget under his scrutiny.

"What was all the talk of financial troubles in aid of?" he questioned, alluding to one of their earliest conversations.

"I was talking about artists in general."

This revelation was met with a minute of silence as he surveyed her as though it was the first time he'd seen her. He knew he shouldn't be feeling manipulated. She hadn't tried to wheedle anything out of him, except food for thought, which he acquired likewise.

And, he really wasn't in a position to hold judgment – he _was_ keeping a rather significant secret from her…

"Still and all, how can you possibly afford a property like this?"

"Oh, I'm not paying for it. It's paid for. It's _bought."_

"You bought it."

"Noooo."

Again, intentionally cryptic. He shot her a look, the subtext in his eyes relaying his disapproval for her ambiguity, to which she submitted to.

"My dad bought it," she confessed, put out. "Technically, this is his home, but he never uses it, so he just," she gestured the room emphatically, "_gave_ it to me. It works out for the both of us. Should he ever swing by Manhattan, he could use one of the three spare bedrooms! Why does this surprise you?" she inquired, referring to his unchanging stare of bemusement, which she had become painfully aware of as she had been speaking.

His eyes swept her form entirely, punctuating his thoughts. "You don't have the air of the upper-class."

"That's 'cause I'm _not_ upper-class," she told him pointedly. "I choose to not be affiliated with that sort of thing. That's the difference between me and Marilyn. Big bank balances, but different social crowds."

"The upscale apartment, the designer clothes, the modern appliances and furniture, the grand piano, the efforts into your appearance – it all costs money," he pondered aloud. She pasted a look of incomprehension onto her face, demanding some sort of conclusion from him. "Money which you can't possibly earn on an artist's salary," he prompted. Her expression remained.

"You are reliant on your father," he concluded, eyes shining with resolve.

She let out a little indignant scoff. "_No._"

He didn't stop to scour that response for traces of denial. "You should _never_ rely on fathers."

"But I love my dad, he's the best. I'm the Scout to his Atticus Finch!"

"Be that as it may, he may not always be there for you to depend on." He shot her a cautionary gaze. "Fathers aren't perfect."

"I know that," she mumbled. Her gaze fired up to him, belatedly affronted. "And I am _not_ reliant on him! I understand there's a fine line between being loved by your father and being spoiled, and I assure you, he's not spoiling me. I'll have you know that although I'm no Annie Leibovitz, I still get my work out there and I do make a profit! What's your problem anyway? You have daddy issues, or something?"

There was no rancor behind her words; her tone was merely curious and a touch concerned, however offhandedly phrased.

"You could say that," he responded absently. She was already halfway across the room, sidetracked, and failed to pick up on his own expression of ambiguity, so he took a seat on the sofa across from the wide screen television on the wall.

Suddenly, a black cat dexterously hopped onto the coffee table with classic feline grace. It was perched in a somewhat guarded stance, regarding Castiel with silky suspicion through slitted eyes. He narrowed his eyes at the cat in similar fashion, not yet understanding the reason for his own misgiving.

The cat gave him the answer as, with the drift of a devious wink, the cat cocked its little head. Then, with its paw, it prodded a remote, and the television blared to life.

"— town of Dubois in Fremont County, Wyoming. The gruesome scene was discovered by the local sheriff at approximately 10:45 this morning, and is said to have been a freak accident caused by —"

Castiel, who went scrambling for the remote the moment "the gruesome scene" was spoken, hastily changed the channel. Fortunately, Audrey missed all of this, but turned around in time to spot the cat.

"Oh! There you are, Rembrandt!"

Had her attention not revolved on the cat, she would have caught Castiel's horrified gape. He could have _sworn_ he saw the cat glare sinisterly at him when she picked him up.

"So, about these daddy issues," she resumed, settling the highly suspicious cat back on the floor, "do you want to talk about it?" Her face contorted with concern as she sunk next to him on the sofa. "You don't have to, if you don't want to."

He contemplated her distantly. With anyone else, it would have been a guaranteed, definite, cut and dried "no". However, her perspective had always been one he was fond of entertaining. She wasn't right most of the time, but he respected her logic. It was refreshing, though maddening when combined with her adamant decisiveness.

It was sensitive ground, but he allowed her in.

"I thought He was… a deadbeat," he murmured, immersed in the memory of his past torment which, he didn't realize, stretched on for a few minutes of silence. She waited patiently the entire time. "But then I found that, all along, He simply wished for me to learn. Fulfill things on my own."

"The tough love shtick, huh?" she chuckled humorlessly. "Effective if both parties are committed."

His face clouded in recollection. "They were."

"He's not a deadbeat. He's a great father." Her words startled him, but he was too interested to interrupt. "You're an example of that."

He surprised her with a genuine laugh. "If you knew Him, or my siblings," his eyes darkened at his reality, "you wouldn't be saying that."

"There will always be bad eggs in a nest, but they shouldn't have to represent the efforts of your parents."

"But we were all raised the same," he reasoned pressingly, gazing at her as though she was the sage with all the answers. "We were all taught the same things —"

"Remember what we talked about? Maybe you were all taught the same things, the same facts, but you're individuals, you will experience different things from each other and it _will_ influence you." Her intention was clearly to reassure, but strangely enough, her words only dismayed him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he _wanted_ to place all the blame on God. It was just … easier.

Ever the perceptive girl, she seemed to read his thoughts. "Don't hold your dad responsible, he did the best he could, but he can't play God."

Her last words virtually invalidated all the words preceding it.

"What does that mean, "play God"?" His eyes flickered combatively, and it didn't seem to faze her. "God doesn't play, He watches."

"Well then," her tone was dangerously mirroring the one used for Marilyn, "he must have gone on a really long bathroom break."

As resilient as Castiel was, that was the straw that broke the camel's back. He shot up to his feet.

"I don't understand you!" he yelled, staring helplessly into her eyes. "If God doesn't act, He's negligent; if He does, He's playing! What do you want from Him?"

She gave him a rather jaded look. "Sit down, Castiel."

"No!"

She sighed, and then appeared to be taking the time to conceive her argument.

"This is why I don't _want_ to believe in him at all, because it's too complex! It airs all these contradictions and ethical dilemmas and just this whole mess of crap that you can't really explain impartially because we don't have all the right answers _despite_ what you may say and I'm not making any sense here and it's stressing me out and this is why I don't want to believe in him at all because it's too complex and —"

"I'm sorry." The words emerged on their own accord, prompted by his massive guilt complex – one of his least favorite human developments. He ran a weary hand down his face and slumped back into his seat. He breathed, "I'm… sorry."

She accepted it with a wan smile before sighing. They sat through a depressing silence, the type of silence one would suffer after a funeral, and the only thing heard was the sound of their breathing.

"Well," she breathed out with an exasperated little smile, "I'm not in the mood now."

Castiel, who had been leaning forward with his chin supported on clasped hands, looked over his shoulder at her.

"In the mood for what?"

Her immediate response was a look of irony, until she saw the genuine innocence on his face. Her expression lost all trace of frustration and was replaced with a mixture of wonder and amusement.

"Wow. So _this_," she gestured between them as her smile pulled to one side, "was always just an innocent visit to you?"

Her smile, now a smirk, made him curious. "How did you see it?"

She sat frozen in astonishment for a solid thirty seconds and he stared back as though he could wait a million years for a response. Then, she smiled. The way she did so suggested that she was most definitely "in the mood".

"_Well _—" In one fluid move, she drew up her legs onto the sofa and began to crawl to him, as he watched her, again, voyeuristically. Her tone of voice plunged seductively. "— my idea certainly didn't involve talking about our dads, but God's name may have fallen into the equation."

She kissed him, finally, and without hesitation, seamlessly easing the sting of their previous conversation and replacing it with the "buzz". No, not the buzz, not anymore. The buzz had electrified to a blazing point, and was now lava coursing deliciously through his body. Her lips were warm and soft, though the pressure she applied against his informed him that she longed for it to progress beyond a close-mouthed kiss. Her implicit wishes provided the much needed kick in the right direction. So, his mouth opened beneath hers.

His willing participation was met with approval as her hand soared up to rake through his hair, both tugging him towards her and angling his head for the perfect kiss. Why did this pressing of skin make him feel so weak? Weak with … desire? He felt he could just keel over contentedly right now.

Just when he was about to twine his own fingers into her hair, she suddenly jerked back into a sitting position, a look of horror on her face.

"You got me thinking about my dad!" she groaned, hands flying up to conceal her face. Had he been completely sober at the time, he would have pointed out it was _she_ that mentioned him.

But he had forgotten who he was.

"A dilemma that can easily be resolved." He apprehended her wrists, pulling them away from her face and swooped in to recapture her lips, firmer this time. Her wrists remained his captive, preventing them from roaming, so he could work to satisfy her himself.

At his feet was Rembrandt, purring lowly, irate that they were acting in such a way within its holy presence – the cat wasn't related to Heaven in any way; Castiel just got the impression that it had a very pompous, holier-than-thou attitude. Though, he wondered what motivated such behavior in the animal. Did he know what Castiel was? Maybe it was a demon in the form of a cat… or more embarrassingly, an angel! Maybe it was _God_ in the form of a cat! What if he was warning him not to go further? It couldn't be; why now, if so?

Wait a minute… this time, _he_ was the one to jolt away, and right out of his seat.

"Now _my_ Father is in the foreground of my mind," he panted, gaping at her as if she had sprouted a second head. "I should go."

She seemed more amused at his expense than disappointed. "Okay."

With a gracious nod, he moved to leave the scene, but in a flash, she had risen to her feet on the sofa so that she dominated him in altitude. Bold as brass, she surprised him with an ardent, demanding kiss that left him lightheaded. He teetered on the spot when she pulled away, a vainglorious grin on her face as she gauged his dazed expression.

"Behavior like that," he began, dumbly trying to pick out some words, and within his state, he wasn't likely to discern a noun from a verb, "doesn't give me much incentive to leave."

"Then don't!" She kissed him _again _– that's got to be a record for an angel – and it almost had him relenting, but his better judgment won. He had demons to be, places to exorcise … or something to that effect.

Besides, she was so sure of herself! With the little sense of humor he possessed, he decided it would be quite amusing to leave her hanging.

Neither moved away when he broke the kiss. He offered her his most rueful gaze. "I have to."

And with a lasting appreciative downward glance, he left her frustrated in a rather physical way, while he broke out into a smile only when he stepped out into the hall.

* * *

"That was about an hour ago," Castiel concluded with a sigh of release. Of course, he had omitted a few minor details in his verbal narration; for example, the music that was playing at the ice skating rink, and Gabriel's little cameo. Though, he might mention _that_ later if it became relevant.

"Wait wait wait wait wait," Dean made frantic back-tracking motions with his hands, "… what happened to the lightening bolt?"

The angel eyed him with the same effect that one would achieve when rolling their eyes. "I removed it."

"Ah… well then, all of that explains the smile earlier." A proud smirk blossomed on his face, slapping the angel sportively on the back. "Good job, buddy! Was there any tongue? Because if there wasn't, then you didn't exactly hit first base yet. Oh! Pop quiz, Cas. If first base is French kissing, second base is foreplay, third base is extreme foreplay – with three x's – what is a home run?"

"Dean —"

"Considering the right answer, that's not _in_correct."

"— I know what sex is. I'm an angel, not a boulder," he said dryly. "By theory, you are more of a virgin than me."

A mixture of incredulity and amusement exploded onto Dean's face. "You _do_ know there's more to it than having to stick Tab A into Slot B, right? Living for forty million years doesn't make you any less of a forty million year old virgin. Right, Sammy? Sam?"

A snore blared in response. The pair turned to notice that Sam, who had been listening like a diligent college student for the most part, had collapsed back onto his bed and fallen asleep at some point. An ever-fleeting look of adoration flashed across Dean's face when he discovered this.

"It's 2AM, and you've just completed a mission," reminded Castiel. "You boys need sleep."

At this, Dean immediately tore his eyes away from his brother and ignited with his typical roguishness.

"Nah, sleep is for the weak!" he jested, brandishing a hand at the snoring form. "_I'll_ be the better wing man here and we can talk about your girl."

Pause. "That sounds like an acceptable idea."

"Awesome. Now, this girl," he began, in all seriousness, "did she always seem like the type who would eventually put out, or did it come as a surprise to you?"

As though he had asked a very intellectual question, Dean's brow knitted and held prayer-like hands against his lips, patiently awaiting an answer of equal profoundness. Castiel regarded him in a way that said his low expectations were met. The older Winchester only managed to catch a few seconds of this stare before the angel reached out, pressed two fingers against his temple, and watched as Dean slumped back onto his bed, sleeping soundly.

"Goodnight, Dean."

* * *

Christ on a bike, this chapter's long. I hate it when they're long; I always get the feeling people check the length of their scroll bar and if it's too small, they run in the other direction. Because I do that, lol. This chapter was written with some difficulty, as I've developed a bit of writer's block. My mind has been on other things: my social life, work, moving out of home, money, and my film school application, ffffffuuuuu—

_Edit: I won't be updating for a week or two; the above, particularly work, is more consistently on my plate at the moment._

Read and review :D


	17. Go to Hell

He couldn't believe he was here. He couldn't believe what he was asking, let alone _who_ he was asking. His efforts were soon made pointless.

"Oh yeah! There are demons in New York - plenty! And sorry bro - not gonna help you smoke them, nooo can-do."

Gabriel's words compelled Castiel to cast a wary glance around the Starbucks café, painfully aware of the nine other pairs of ears within the proximity. Everybody appeared completely unresponsive to his words, and his volume.

That anomaly aside, he glowered finally. "Why not?"

"Not only am I not gonna help you," he resumed in an ironically obliging tone, while spraying whipped cream onto one of the many cakes on the table between them (Gabriel and that sweet tooth of his), "– but I'm gonna advise that you back off."

Abandoning all thought for the whipped cream smiley-face Gabriel was creating, Castiel eyed him severely. "Why?"

"Caaaas_,_" Gabriel drawled fondly, "do you remember Matthew 7:12?"

Castiel nodded, and commenced reciting without conscious effort. "_Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them: for this is the law and_ – wait, what are you implying?" he said, his tone suddenly elevating sharply. "That I should overlook their presence because they've entitled us the same?" A more or less troublesome thought struck him, and the severity of his gaze dimmed. "... Demons _know_ we're here."

"Wellll... not necessarily _us_, not angels!" he clarified, peppering about with a medley of sprinkles and chocolate chips as though it was the most normal thing in the world. "But they know that another one of their kind, as in, something paranormal, is always around the corner." He had begun animatedly, but sometime halfway, his sprinkling task demanded profound concentration, and so lost commitment to their conversation. "If you wanna be left alone... I suggest ... you allow them ... the same ... treatment."

Castiel regarded him with an expression of muted outrage, and was inwardly annoyed that he wasn't looking to bear the brunt of his reaction.

"_NO,_" he said, in an assertive tone that achieved the same impact of bellowing. "They are demons. That is zero tolerance."

Although the sprinkling did not waver - one hand did, however, alternate a shaker for a bottle of caramel - Gabriel smirked at his vehemence.

"Something's clouding your resolve if you're here yakkin' to me about them and not out there creating mass biblical genocide."

Fed up with Gabriel's lack of attention, Castiel swiped the caramel bottle from his hand, succeeding in snaring his brother's regard but realizing belatedly that the act was rather juvenile.

"I was asking for your help, not your opinion." His tone was bitchier than what should have been achievable for an angel.

"My opinion _is _help," he sassed, snatching the bottle back possessively and using it to punctuate his point, "just not the help _you_ were expecting or caring to hear."

There was silence as Castiel deplored this reality, but was also silently grateful that Gabriel was too busy adorning the cakes with caramel G's to be outwardly smug about it.

"Fine. I don't need your help anyway," he grumbled. "You simply seemed eager to form some sort of rapport."

"Oh-ho, no you don't!" Gabriel laughed discerningly, settling everything down on the table to eye him knowingly. "You can't play the familial card for this, Buster! The best thing I can do for you is tell you that your intentions suck! Seriously, poke one bear and the whole sloth will come out quicker than Ricky Martin."

Sensing that this was the truth and deciding not to acknowledge it, Castiel didn't reply. Instead, he dropped his scowl to the sweets before him. Gabriel dipped his head to meet with his eyes.

"Wanna share a brownie?" he asked with abstract sympathy, pushing a plate towards him. "Red velvet cupcake? Rich toffee pecan bar? Very berry coffee cake? It's low fat! Grande soy milk skinny latte, shot with vanilla, a sprinkle of cinnamon with a lemon twist?"

Castiel chose to ignore Gabriel's grin of approval when he, surprisingly, accepted this from his hand. He stared down at the beverage, his eyes mingling with wistfulness as his mind connected this object to a more pleasant thought.

"Audrey drinks these," he said absentmindedly.

"Who, little red? She was foxyyy." He grinned salaciously as he buttered a muffin, literally. Coincidence though it may be, Castiel did not enjoy watching this in light of the words preceding it. When he stood up, Gabriel's grin vanished and his head whipped up. "Where you goin'?"

"What I came here to do is done."

"No no no, stay bro!" he cried. He rabidly gestured Castiel to sit back down. "Let's work on this rapport, shall we?"

Slowly and hesitantly, Castiel reclaimed his seat.

"So! What did you do after you left here?" His genial smile pulled to a wicked smirk. "Did you rock the casbah? Did she hop upon the wild pony? Did you batter dip the corn dog? Did she take a ride on the disco stick?" At Castiel's blank stare, Gabriel sniggered and swept a hand over his head. "_Whoosh!_"

"I don't understand what you're asking," replied Castiel. The reality that Gabriel, still congenitally an angel like Castiel, exceeded his level of worldliness, was not encouraging. "Are you utilizing euphemisms?"

Gabriel fixed him with his most amused of glances laced with incredulity before he spoke, his tone coordinating his expression seamlessly. "How does she talk to you? She must have the patience of a saint."

His eyes shone at the thought of her. "She _is_ interesting."

Had he not gone astray with his reminiscence of her, he would have caught the knowing smirk growing on Gabriel's face as he witnessed this happening.

"What's she like?" he asked. Castiel, still lost in a memory, mistook his surreptitiously intrigued tone for indifference.

He told him. He told him her interests, her quirks, the things he liked, the things he didn't ... when he came to, he was met with Gabriel's mixed expression of amusement and mockery. "Ye gods ... is she a rebel or a lesbian?" he snorted.

Despite Castiel's weary glance in response, there was still a trace of a smile within it.

"Yep, she sure is foxy," Gabriel randomly resumed, not really adding anything to the conversation. "Though she should really take it easy on the eyeliner. Put on anymore and she may get accused of doing blackface."

He was staring out the window when he said this. Sensing that there was a relevance he had yet to perceive, Castiel twisted in his chair and followed his gaze.

There she was, Audrey, on the highest step of the Duffy Square TKTS stairs, and she wasn't alone.

"Who is _that_ guy?" Gabriel asked, his tone indicating that he wasn't as curious as he was intrigued to gauge Castiel's reaction.

"I don't know."

But he was going to find out!

Without further acknowledgment to Gabriel, who was glowing with amusement, he rose from his seat and swept out of the café. Castiel's eyes never left her as he maneuvered through the horde of pedestrians, doing so effortlessly, as everyone sensed his intangible authoritative nature. The mystery man descended the glowing red stairs just as Castiel had begun to embark them, and just when he was about to permit him his best subtly menacing glare, this man looked at him up and down, smirked, and winked.

The angel froze, in the midst of narrowing his eyes into a scowl. Not knowing what to do with that unexpected gesture, he dithered internally for a long while, before glancing up to where Audrey was, who had yet to spot him. With a heavy sigh, she flopped to sit on the highest step. He ascended towards her, and wasn't noticed until halfway, to which she then shot to her feet.

"Is everything alright?" he asked, pausing in his journey up to her to note her skittishness.

"How long have you been there?" Her tone could be described as either paranoid or immensely pleased to see him.

"I didn't hear anything if that's what you're concerned about." The bitterness of his tone was apparent, but too faint to remark upon. He ascended another step towards her.

"I'm not concerned. Not anymore," she added with a miserable smile, "because I've come to the conclusion... that I'm socially retarded."

Another step up towards her. "What leads you to believe that?"

"You know that guy I was talking to? He's an accounting temp for Bass magazine - he's an absolute _dreamboat_." This strange noun drew a frown from him, to which she mistook for resentment. "I mean, he's got nothing on you! ... but he's French! And shops at Banana Republic!" She delivered a little laugh, as though the spectacle of her point couldn't be made any clearer.

"And you," he embarked the step just below her, so that they were of equal height, "are attracted to him?"

It took her a few seconds to identify what the edge of his tone conveyed, and when she did, a silly smile erupted onto her face. Coming at equal height made it easier for her to lay her hands restfully on his broad shoulders.

"Maybe a little," she mumbled bashfully, running her gloved hands down his arms and toying with his cuffs. "Doesn't matter though, 'cause he's gay."

"I see."

"And married."

"Oh."

"With kids."

"Hm."

"And his visa's expiring soon!"

"..."

"That's bad."

"Oh."

"We're probably fifth cousins or something," she chuckled humorlessly. "Or there's the matter that - inessential though it is, still existing - he's a Frenchman, I'm technically English, so there's that whole Napoleonic Wars thingy in our history."

"Do you believe you're drawn to the wrong people?" It was like speaking in third person.

She seemed pleased that connection was made, nodding earnestly. "I clearly don't know what I'm doing if I'm gravitating towards the wrong people!" Her expression contorted suddenly. "What about you? There's gotta be a catch as usual. Are you gay?"

He gave her a look. He wasn't quite sure what the look was, but he expected it to both answer her question and express his incredulity simultaneously. Her knitted brow wasn't a promising sign where his achievements were concerned.

"Hm. That reaction could go either way." Something behind her eyes clicked, and they illuminated triumphantly. "_Either way!_ Maybe you're bisexual! That would explain a lot." Wisely, he chose not to ask why. "So, are you gay, or what?"

His hands curled around her wrists, which had long moved up from his cuffs to the lapels of his trench coat; either to tacitly answer her question or to impede to her constant fiddling.

"What kind of a question is that?"

"You can't answer a question with another question," she said, grinning impishly.

He sighed, relenting. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I don't think I am?"

"You don't think you're gay?" The conversation was beginning to resemble a call-and-response song verse. "Wow, either you've been around more times than a hula hoop or you haven't gotten any at all."

In response, he fixed her with dull look. "You asked me as though the possibility of it being so is a bad thing."

"Did I? Oh, I didn't mean it that way," she amended, pulling away and moving to sit on the steps, with him following, "I'm totally cool with homosexuality, I'm a voting democrat and all, I just, lately I feel like there's a _catch_ with everyone I meet." She was oblivious to the way he tensed at this. "I can't think of a word that has the same definition of "catch" sans negative connotations, but that's essentially what I mean. With everyone I meet, there's always something about them that I don't initially know, but once I find out, it changes my whole perception of them."

"Uh –" Whoops, that wasn't meant to come out. Now she was looking at him, interested to hear his input. He struggled. "If I'm not mistaken, that's called a secret, something of which everyone has."

"Why do _I_ always have to find out?"

He locked eyes with her significantly longer than necessary. "Maybe you won't." He tore his eyes away. "Perhaps you should consider it a compliment. People trust you and open up to you. People believe you deserve to know the truth." The words emerged unconsciously, as though there was a fraction of him yearning to preach the greater part of himself.

"What if I find out before they have a chance to tell me themselves?"

He stared at her. "Then they don't deserve to know you." Again, words emerged from somewhere undetermined. The greater part of him then retaliated, "Or it's simply none of your business."

For a second, she seemed to bridle at his bluntness, but eventually gave him the benefit of the doubt.

"Yeah. Yeah! I shouldn't get cut up about Sebastian," she gestured emphatically to where this man once stood, "I barely know the guy! Besides, he doesn't know what he's missing. He could have had all of _this!_" Castiel didn't know where to look when she suddenly grabbed her chest for emphasis. "I'm too much woman for him!"

"Considering his sexual orientation, that would be the obvious answer," he said dryly.

She sent him a dopey smile before twisting around to sit facing him. "What about you, Castiel? Any women troubles... _or men?_"

He glanced downwards at her, briefly considering mirroring her move since it felt awkward facing away from her while she addressed him like this.

"None in the context you're speaking of."

"Hm."

"Although," he began reluctantly, knowing this was going to swell her ego beyond belief, "you have been an interesting addition in my ... life." If one could call it that.

It achieved the anticipated effect, indicated only by way of a smirk. "By saying "although", you're implying that I'm relevant to a degree."

"Yes, but I don't consider you a problem." Why was he even saying this? He knew she would take glory in this; her grin was confirmation.

"Sooo, I'm relevant to a degree but you don't see me as a problem. A problem is something that plagues your mind; so in what other form can I occupy your mind but for a more positive reason?"

"You're only exploring this for the benefit of your ego." His indistinct smirk, surfacing within his otherwise dull look, challenged her to negate him.

Instead, she pasted a look of profound curiosity on her face. "Does it really? What's the answer? No, really, Castiel, I need to hear it from you!"

His smile was shrewd. "I'm not giving you the satisfaction."

The naive facade dropped and she mirrored his smile. "Then neither am I," she replied suggestively. She was flirting again. It was undoubtedly pleasant ... but now he had to ask.

"Why are you interested in that man if you –"

"Anyway!" she interrupted. Considering her exuberance, he wasn't sure if this was deliberate. "I'm glad you're here!"

"You are? Why?"

"There's something I kinda want to discuss with you," she furrowed her brow suddenly, "but I kinda don't, knowing how these sort of conversations end."

"You can tell me anything."

She nodded, visibly preoccupied with assembling the right words. "Hypothetically speaking, how can human beings be split into either Heaven or Hell in the afterlife? They're two absolutes, whereas humans can't be defined as either one wholly. There's good and bad in everyone."

He smiled.

"What's so funny?"

"I'm not laughing."

"Well something's amusing you!"

"What affected your curiosity in this subject?"

"Nothing!"

She was a terrible liar. He humored her anyway.

"It's a common misconception that Heaven is a luxurious realm for the righteous."

There was a long pause before she realized there would be no further elaboration.

"... is it not?"

"Heaven is the place where God dwells, and Hell isn't."

Her head tilted in a vain attempt to understand. "Yeah, _and_?" Her charming insolence revived his smile a little.

"God determines who is granted mercy and absolution. Those who aren't... are condemned to eternal damnation."

She snorted at the simplicity of this, though her labored smile demonstrated her scorned intelligence. "Uh, yeah, I know that! What I'm asking is, how can God split human souls categorically into either black or white." Reflection crossed her face before she hastily added, "As in the fixed points of a moral compass, not skin color. _I_ think it's unfair for the Good People to share Heaven with the People Who Were Forgiven, don't you think? I understand that God probably makes allowances for a rough childhood or a traumatizing experience when he's considering a soul for exoneration, but still, it's unfair to those who followed the Ten Commandments as closely as they could, intentionally or not."

The thought she had clearly exercised into the topic impressed him. He was about to verbalize these sentiments with undisguised admiration, but she stopped him with a flat look, informing him that she desired only an answer.

"It's decided by what is in one's heart," he answered, the admiration in his eyes lingering, almost teasing her for taking such involuntary interest in something he valued.

"Hell must be real empty since no one deliberately hopes to be... evil!"

"No one in Hell thinks of themselves that way. They just _are._ It's not that they're misguided - it's the misguided ones that are generally granted mercy - it's simply that a human is capable of being as purely malicious as a –" The next word awoke him to the dangerous direction the conversation was going. "– demon. We are all God's creatures, and He created Lucifer after all."

"Okay..." After a lull of mere nodding as she digested this, she spoke again. "Let's say there's this man who has been perfect his entire life. Then, one day, he has a really bad day, and he rapes a thirteen year old girl. Suddenly, he deserves to go to Hell. Is that right? Is he really worthy of Hell for one psychotic act?"

The swift construction of this scenario alarmed him. For a while, he just stared, seeking to interpret her expression for more than it was.

"Audrey, I hope you're not speaking from experience."

Her surprise was, thankfully, genuine. "No no! I had a good childhood."

He nodded in acknowledgment. "In regards to your question... I don't know. That's for God to decide."

"That's a bummer of a job."

He stared forward grimly. "People should give Him more credit. People shouldn't question or criticize His decisions."

From the corners of his eyes, he detected her skeptical glance. It _was_ a matter of time before she began regarding him and his religious certitude with the same curiosity and unease that he often gave her. She seemed to shake away whatever thoughts had presented themselves, and resumed.

"People in Heaven wouldn't accept him," she referred to her fictional rapist.

"Perhaps people who don't accept him don't exist in his idea of Heaven."

This didn't seem to quell her confusion, but it appeared she had moved on to another thought.

"Well I can't help but remember that all these bad people - murderers and rapists and what have you... as much as people want to label them animals, they were all once a beautiful little baby."

"You are too compassionate for your own good." Although his eyes glimmered with admiration again, his tone was cautionary.

"So shoot me."

"I wouldn't wish that upon you." There was a pause as both relished the lighthearted banter. Now he had to ask again. "What engendered these thoughts? Do you know someone whose fate may incite indecision in God?"

"I know _of _people like that." While it was a fair response, her eyes told him that she was deflecting. "Where does Roman Polanski go when he dies? Because Roman Polanski," she lifted up a hand, weighing his name, "Charles Manson," she raised her other hand likewise and trailed off with an ambivalent expression as she moved her hands in a weighing motion. "The extent of their crimes don't exactly match up."

Thanks to Sam and Dean, he knew who they were and their respective crimes.

"What are you saying? That he belongs in Heaven?"

"No! I'm making a point. They're both bad people," she grimaced suddenly, as though she feared his reaction to her viewpoint, "_just in different measures,_ and yet, it seems they share the same fate."

"Audrey."

"Yes?"

Why he said her name, he didn't know. Perhaps it was to reassure her that he wasn't appalled by her deliberation and spare her from the daunting silence as he formulated a response.

"Heaven is not infinitely luxurious, contrary to popular belief - Heaven is peace. Hence, "Rest in Peace". As I've said, Heaven is where God dwells, first and foremost."

Her brow furrowed, puzzled. "So it's just _His_ home? It's eternal serenity? It's one's own idea of Heaven? I'm lost!"

"You _should_ be," he caught her eye to ensure she followed him to the bottom line, "it's not as simple as you've initially construed it to be. It's a labyrinth of obscurities that you cannot fathom until you are there."

The way comprehension gradually emerged on her face was glorious.

"_Ohhh_. It makes sense that it doesn't make sense!" With an accomplished smile, she bowed her head. "Thank you for illuminating that to me, Professor Castiel."

Optimism colored his features. "Does this mean you believe in God now?"

Blink. "Nah!" When his expression fell, she giggled. "Entertaining the thought is a lot more fun when it's with you, though!" she heartened, beaming. "Some people I know like to do it with a lot less of an open mind!" Her eyes no longer coordinated her smile. "Some people like to then blow it all out of proportion." Her smile faltered. "Some people like to judge me because I look at things abstractly when all I want is a bit of theoretical discussion." She was wringing the hem of her skirt now. "Some people like to then fashion this bastardized image of me and convince some other people that that's who I am."

His expression of surprise had fallen progressively into one of concern in synchrony with hers. He considered reaching out to settle her wringing hands, but didn't.

"Did _some people_ induce these thoughts of Heaven and Hell?"

This earned him a dismal little smile before she stilled her hands by peering down at them.

"It's not their fates I'm concerned with. It's just that I had the exact same conversation with some people, except before that, I'd called them my friends."

This time, he really did reach out to embrace her hands, and did not speak until she looked at him. "I'm sorry some people are narrow minded."

She scoffed, not necessarily at him, but as though his words were too lenient. "Some people can go to Hell."

* * *

When something big happens in a chapter and there is a sudden lack of reviews, you know something's wrong, lol; so tell me, did the last chapter rub most of you the wrong way? Was it too soon? Let me know ;)

And sorry for the lateness; life became _ridiculously_ hectic, and I expect it to be like that post-2011, which is why I hope to complete this story before then. Unlikely, but we'll see...

Read and review :D


	18. Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

It was halfway through a mission in Roanoke, Virginia when the thought presented itself. The fact that there was even a remote divergence where his concentration was concerned should have been alarming enough. It plagued him enough to convince the brothers he was required elsewhere and that they could salt and burn skeletal remains without his attendance. Five minutes later, he burst through the doors of the record store in pursuit for a certain young woman.

A child's _Crayola_ laden rendition of Castiel at this very moment would see him radiating wavy lines of blue and red; the blue representing his obvious purposefulness, and the red suggesting a slight menace. With the way he stood and the way his narrowed eyes felt around the room, he exhibited all the hallmarks of the number one cop in town about to make a huge bust, and was calculating how to approach that with decorum.

"Audrey!" he hailed in a commanding voice that would have carried across the room, but became lost within the store's booming music. Aretha Franklin's "Respect" was playing, and it was as though the universe set out to answer his impending questions on her behalf. He looked around, wondering if there was anywhere he could direct the roll of his eyes.

It struck him, then, that he had arrived during a hot hour for business. A young woman who appeared to be on the sunny side of nineteen emerged next to him.

"Good evening, sir! How can I help you?"

"Where can I find Audrey Hathaway?" he asked, never denying the scene his vigilant gaze. All he needed to distinguish her was a flash of red hair within the sea of customers.

"She's in the back room at the moment." He immediately proceeded in that direction, ignoring her protests. "Oh, but you can't go in there! Sir!"

Her youthful reluctance didn't see her following him for more than three steps, allowing him to barge into the back room without disruption.

The room was unlike the main shop floor; it was lifeless and cluttered - the quintessential office workspace. Where there were not boxes, there were filing cabinets. If the room had a color palette, it would be named "Albino Vomit", so it should come as no surprise that Audrey, who occupied the office chair in the middle of the room, attracted all attention. She sat cross-legged in the chair, holding up negative film strips to the ceiling light for examination. She jolted when the doors split opened, and Castiel swept into the room like a boss, smoldering with authority.

As though she held resistance to his glowing temperament, she smiled cheerfully and stood to grandly address him. "Castiel!"

"Sit down."

She visibly flinched, feeling her affection being repelled back at her. He sensed her gauging him for a moment; his tone, his words, his stance, his eyes, registering it all too belatedly, before she spoke finally.

"...what?"

"I said sit down," his austerity never stalling as he turned to lock the door behind him. "We need to have a little talk." The intense way he looked at her over his shoulder revealed little to what he truly intended for her immediate future.

Her gaze lingered on his act of locking the door, and there was a brief flicker of something libidinous that vanished at his added sentence.

"That doesn't sound promising," she muttered in a low but peppery tone as she lowered into her seat.

He stopped just before her desk, prompting her with his hands. "What do you know about me?"

"What do you mean?"

"You can't answer a question with another question," he echoed her words with a sharp eye.

There was another flinch before she pulled a curtain of formality over her disorientation, and emulated his solemn tone with her own. "There is an exception to that rule if the person being questioned is unclear about the essence of the question."

That was a fair point. He raised his chin, acknowledging it as such, but his eyes never lost its gleam of burning suspicion.

"You don't know a thing about me," he stated, pausing to allow his skepticism to hang in the air. "Why are you so affectionate with me?" With two hands propped against the table, elbows locked, he inclined inwards, rolling the trepidation she may possess given her guilt. "Do you know something about me?"

She didn't appear inclined to answer any of his questions. Instead, she stared, her eyes mingling with the same amount of curiosity.

"Do you believe I'm manipulating you?" she asked finally.

"Answer the question."

"You asked two."

Pause.

"Why are you so affectionate with me?"

"I'm an affectionate person."

"Do you know something about me?"

"I only know what you've willingly shared with me." There was another pause as Castiel removed his hands from the table, moving them entirely before his whole stance followed, and stood upright to consider this. "Do you believe I'm manipulating you?"

"I've been acquainted with people who are liable to do that."

"And they'd put you under the impression that you can trust them?"

His eyes flared defensively. "I never said I've fallen for their charade."

When she did not smile wryly at his defensiveness, he began to regret the confrontation, or at least the manner of which he approached it with.

"Why are you suddenly so suspicious?" she asked.

Immediately, he felt his veil of authority stripped away from him. It had become personal. He barely refrained from squirming.

"I enjoy your company," he muttered, despising how exposed he suddenly felt. "I would hate to discover that it's all just a guise."

This earned him a responsive smile, but her eyes remained guarded. "I assure you, I'm not trifling with you in any way." They stared at each other. He searched for the truth in her eyes, and she was submitting it to him to find.

"Are you always this insecure with people?" she asked suddenly, her tone comfortingly laced with humor.

His smile was cynical. "It would be unprofessional of me if I wasn't."

"Ah yes," her eyes glimmered with that very familiar curiosity of hers, "you and your mystery profession." This glint in her eye remained as she fixed him with a very prudent gaze. "With all due respect, Castiel, but if either of us is entitled to be suspicious, that would be me. I mean, you can't just be a handsome white guy with an ass that won't quit without some catch, right?"

"What?" What did she say about his... he shook his head - never mind that now. "Then why aren't you suspicious of me?"

She contemplated this for an extended moment. "I'm not suspicious per se," she conceded at length, "but I _am_ curious. But I'm not going to hassle you about it. It _is_ your business. However," she pointed a finger at him, "for a healthy relationship, either socially or professionally, you have to let yourself open up to people, even just a little." Her palms rose up, stopping herself. "You don't have to practice what I preach - it's just my two cents, take it or leave it."

He nodded slowly and broodingly. This seemed logical. He decided to venture this advice.

"I went to a brothel once," he revealed, very seriously, "with the intention of losing my virginity. It wasn't successful as I had scared off the prostitute."

He didn't know how to feel about her immediate reaction, which was an interesting mixture of amusement and horror. She hid her smile (or grimace) beneath her hand.

"Mea cupla," he heard her whisper into her hand.

"What's wrong?"

When her eyes darted back at him, she let out a little laugh. "I'm a friend, not a priest! Or a shrink..."

He managed a crooked smile. "I'm sorry I suspected you."

"No no," she waved him off, "like you said, it'd be unprofessional if you weren't."

"You are very understanding."

Her brow knitted and she looked at him up and down. "Now you're starting to freak me out. Like you have a dark past or something. Oh! Or maybe you have a disability! Maybe, up until recently, you were Amish!" She stopped for a beat with a contemplative look. "That last one actually makes a lot of sense."

Her theories were acknowledged fleetingly with an amused gaze, before he spoke again in a more earnest tone.

"You trust far too easily, Audrey," he said, his head tilting to one side as he appraised her with what could have easily been mistaken for admiration. "The absence of threatening objects in my possession on the night we met should not have been enough for such an immediate reprieve. I could have hurt you in another way."

"I know that. I just," she shrugged helplessly, vacating her seat, "I get a good vibe from you, that's all." She rounded the desk, progressing towards him. "You radiate this positive aura, like you've got this halo around you, and I can't help but feel safe with you. If anything, that just makes me even more curious about you. Satisfied?"

It took him a few moments to respond, as his train of thought had derailed by the way she had, rather temptingly, leaned back against the table.

"Very."

Closure, at last, reestablished their usual balance, and they basked in each other's small but genuine smiles. As they do in the angel's existence, the serene ambiance was thrown off at once.

"Whataya kids doin' in there?" clamored a Queens-inflected voice from outside, drawing both their gazes to the door. "You better nawt be havin' sex! I told you, I'd know!"

He looked back at Audrey, assuming that an exchange of bewildered glances were in order, but she appeared surprisingly unperturbed. It was though she had been conceived without the ingredient of inhibition; one could say she was disabled. It was certainly a quirk he envied. His expression momentarily morphed into something that conveyed just that, but was soon to change back to one of confusion.

"Why does she always presume that that is what's happening back here?"

Her smile became a smirk. "Because it's happened before."

There was a glint in her eye that was very easy to read. Emphatically, he gave the room a glance and then back at her.

"_You?_"

Her blush, added to her expression, fashioned her the very image of a minx. Pushing herself off the desk, she advanced languidly towards him, and with this new revelation, he wondered what she had planned for what lied just ahead.

"What, you've never messed around at work before?" she asked, her tone steering the atmosphere effectively downwards as she sidled close. She pressed a soft kiss against his lips with the lingering hope that he would return it with more authority, and had she not used a certain two words, he would have. At his unresponsiveness, and his pensive expression, she frowned. "What's wrong?"

"I'm trying to figure out what you're doing," he answered, casting an indicative gaze down at her hands wrapped around his tie.

Her look of stark perplexity was brief but it was there, as though she reflected on her actions and then wondered how she could have made her intentions any clearer. Although a little flustered, she assumed a charming smile.

"I'm trying to mess around with you, I thought that was obvious."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that all? Just "messing around"?"

"Yes?" she said slowly, as though he was senile.

As he hummed thoughtfully, he denied her another kiss by turning his head. She reeled back, shooting him a extremely baffled look, and he proceeded to apprehend her wrists and lower them to her sides methodically. Then, with a stiff nod, he hurried out of the room and vanished.

* * *

Sam and Dean needed an impossible door opened. It would seem that there were even more skeletal remains secreted within an abandoned cabin's crawlspace. Considering their mementos of facial bruising, they had learned this the hard way.

Without even being asked, or even having the necessity indicated to begin with, Castiel readily plucked the axe from Dean's hands and began swinging vehemently at the door, managing words between each impact.

"She says - we're just - messing around!"

Behind him, the brothers exchanged glances in their usual manner.

"So?"

Mid-swing, Castiel whipped around to them, axe still elevated at the ready, and the brothers lurched downwards in a frantic haste to avoid the swing that never came.

"_So?_" Castiel echoed as incredulously as he possibly could. The familiar look of confusion crossed his face as he noted their reaction, then glanced briefly at the upraised axe before lowering it finally.

"Cas, you've only known her for about three weeks," said Sam, withdrawing the axe from Castiel's custody, hesitantly doing so as though he thought the angel would lash out with the object in disagreement. "Do you really expect the relationship to develop into anything more than that?"

The angel said nothing, and simply stepped aside for Sam to complete the task of eliminating the door.

"She's a New York girl," Sam resumed. He took a heavy swing at the door, then added in more strangled voice as he pulled the axe out from where it had anchored, "New Yorkers have very dynamic lives!"

"She's not like other New Yorkers."

"Cas," came Dean's voice, in that tone which held the intent of reassuring, but never was. He clapped a hand on the angel's shoulder. "How many New Yorkers do you even know?" At Castiel's resigned sigh, he added, "She's just looking for a bit of fun! You know, _girls just wanna have fun_ and whatnot."

"Where exactly do I reside in that notion? She can find that anywhere."

"I know that feeling," Dean replied wistfully, grinning. Castiel shot him a scandalized look; that wasn't reassuring at all! The notion of Audrey finding a little "fun" every which way, just like Dean... he barely, _just_ barely abstained from shuddering. He roamed away, frowning at the ground.

"But she is interested in me, I know she is." When he failed to hear anymore axe-swinging, he peered back at them, and when he perceived what lied behind their amused expressions, his eyes flared. "I am _not_ being egotistic."

"We didn't say anything," Dean's tone was derisively innocent.

"You didn't have to," muttered Castiel, his irritated gaze darting to and from either brother, "You were thinking it."

Again, there was an exchange of glances between the brothers, before comprehension blossomed on their faces.

"Let me guess," Dean began, his eyes glittering, "you read her mind too? And that's how you know for sure?" Castiel's irritated regard faltered under Dean's knowing one. "Dude, that is so nosy! That's worse than any of the nosy crap women put men through." Despite the guilt trip, he laughed. "Maybe you should sit her down, give her a lap-dance and sing _"Tell Me Something Good"_ to her." At both Castiel _and _Sam's puzzled expressions, he twirled his wrists, beckoning them. "You know... You refuse to put anything before your pride," he began to sing, "I got something that will knock all your pride aside, tell me something good, tell me that you love me, tell me that you like it..." At Castiel's weary gaze, he added, "... or not."

"You are not very helpful, Dean."

"Don't blame me, blame my gender. I have too much testosterone and not enough estrogen to hatch some advice for you, Cas. Having said that, just ask Sammy next time."

With one last swing, Sam tore the door clean off of its hinges. After flinging it to the ground, he was too exhausted to speak through his panting, and instead, shot Dean a look that seemed to translate to a sarcastic expression of thanks. Dean welcomed it with a salute.

All regard for his personal dilemmas were left behind as he became overwhelmed with an elusive sensation. The brothers noted this change in the angel, and poised themselves at the ready as he held out a hand.

"I sense something," he declared vaguely, entering the cabin as though he lacked a sense of self-preservation.

"I hope it's the bones, and not another freakin' spirit!" carped Dean, drawing out a gun, following the angel along with his brother. "Angry sons of bitches, the lot of them."

* * *

His eyes were closed, hand held out to foster his sensory pursuit for any spectral movement within the vicinity. It was one thing to be interrupted, but it was another thing to raise the topic of Audrey in the middle of a job. Not only was it unprofessional, but it felt quite undignified, as though Castiel's personal life (or even the fact that he had one now) had become something of a novelty to them.

Well, to Dean.

"You know, now that you know that she likes you in that way, seeing as how you mentally probed her –" At this, Castiel opened his eyes to shoot him a withering look, "– you could have some fun with it." He remained silent with begrudging interest, which encouraged Dean to continue. "Tease her, tempt her, drive her crazy! Reel her in then throw her back out!"

"_Dean... _we need to focus on the matter at hand." He moved away to devote his concentration on another part of the room, oblivious to the knowing smirk on Dean's face. Dean gave it about five seconds.

Five, four, three, two...

Seething suddenly, Castiel came hurrying back. "_Furthermore_," he checked himself as he had begun a little too heatedly, "that's sounds unkind."

Dean's smug expression flattened. "Okay, when I said reel her in then throw her back out, I don't mean flirt with her and then push her in front of a bus, just be aloof about it. The ladies _love_ that."

The angel dithered on the spot, clearly caught between his obligation to work and the trouble that was Audrey. Eventually, he let out an impatient, "Why?"

"Beats me," Dean replied unhelpfully with a shrug. "Unsolved mysteries."

Castiel's expression was then incredibly stern, almost comically so, marking the close of this discussion, and just when he was about to walk away, he whipped back around. "How do I do that?"

Dean had the odd grace not to laugh at his commitment. "Well, you can pretend to accidentally drop something in front of her and then bend over to pick it up. Or does that only work if you're a girl?" Castiel couldn't tell if he was being serious or not. He paused to soberly consider this, but then shook his head and regained direction. "Just keep invading her personal space, like you do to everybody."

"She doesn't seem to mind at all."

This answer genuinely startled Dean. "Okay, uhh... touch her!"

"Where?"

"Everywhere!"

Pause.

"Touch her... everywhere?" Castiel echoed doubtfully, blanching at the suggestiveness.

"Just make it seem subtle and totally innocent. Throw in a double entendre here and there, and she'll be _so_ hot for you –"

Castiel's gaze turned cynical. "I don't think I should be taking advice from you."

Shrug. "You asked for it." He shook Castiel gently by the shoulders. "You need to take the reigns, Cas! At the moment she's leading the dance. And I'm sure there's a part of you that finds that to be completely out of order."

There was a simulated clearing of a throat, drawing both their gazes over to an amused Sam.

"Are you guys done or are you about to trade pointers on fashion?" he asked in a very sensible tone. "Though probably to the benefit of Dean's."

"Are you kidding me?" Dean exclaimed, horrified. He pointed a critical finger at the angel. "This guy doesn't even change his clothes!" He then offered Castiel his most incredulous look. "It's miracle you don't stink!"

A look of mild inquisitiveness was what Dean received in response, and with a hopeless roll of his eyes, he beckoned him to follow, resuming their duties. As Castiel silently followed the brothers into another room, he allowed himself a minute to think. Dean's advice, however gracelessly put, was somewhat logical and rated as one of the least outrageous pieces of advice bestowed upon him.

Still, perhaps he should ask Gabriel for his input too.

* * *

This was hastily edited; I might edit it a bit more later on, but I wanted to post it now. By the way, I'm impressed by the number of reviews for the previous chapter! Reviewing chapters, like a boss.

Read and review :)


	19. The Goldilocks Principle

That uncomfortable feeling which resembled that of the time he was considering disobedience - that taut feeling of holding one's breath for too long despite breathing perfectly - had returned. Though this was undesired, bearing in mind _where_ he was, the blame lied on none other than himself.

He and Audrey had had their talk, and his doubts became nothing but bygones. In spite of this, here he was, in her apartment, snooping around, harboring only the uncomfortable feeling of guilt which can and always will be triumphed by his wayward curiosity.

Originally, the plan was to meet Gabriel and relay to him his most recent brush with Audrey in exchange for his input, but he had responded that he was busy. His exact words were "I'm gonna bring back fat Oprah!" to which Castiel, fairly fazed and not wanting to dignify that with verbal acknowledgment, automatically interpreted as a declaration of his unavailability. Stranded with the line that he would be free at night, this left him to his own devices for a few hours.

To the average human with hobbies, instincts and responsibilities, a spare few hours was nothing to prize. However, an angel who was "off-duty", as one may say; with one hobby (he'd prefer to refer his business with Audrey as a sort of "side interest" as opposed to "hobby") and a budding sense of instinct that was making progress as a result of this "side interest"; a spare few hours was a perilous thing in his possession, given these factors and his aforementioned curiosity.

Those windows of recreational opportunities would undoubtedly lead him to her, he wouldn't deny that. What he _would_ deny was that he was more or less abusing his own power by doing certain things; reading her mind for one, prowling around her apartment was the next. But he just couldn't help himself. It was so easy!

Hence, the peril of these extra hours in his hands.

Her home was conveniently empty and ripe for exploration. He nosed through rooms without the slightest idea of what he was looking for. Perhaps, he reasoned, this was a method to familiarize himself with her more closely, albeit rather morbidly.

The kitchen wasn't very enlightening; neither were any of the three guestrooms. He did, however, find a Bible that had been hollowed out and filled with cigars, and the Qur'an which met the same fate to accommodate a bottle of cognac, to which he then assumed that that room in particular was reserved for her father. Another guestroom had even become a darkroom.

Naturally, there were framed photographs here, there and everywhere - some her work, some other's, some personal - and all he really learned from her personal collection was that her natural hair color was blonde.

He was examining a photograph of her and another man whose face, obviously out of spite, was veiled with a picture of Stephen Colbert's head, when he spotted it. There was the door in his peripheral vision, seducing him with its mere presence and purpose(s).

It was her bedroom.

Dwelling on earth with beings who were defined by whether they were oversexed or undersexed had become an influence, and now, Castiel couldn't regard a bedroom door the same way he would any other. It was curious how a _bed-room_ aroused a much different impression to its literal and rather trivial definition. He recalled this first influencing him on a past mission, wherein Sam returned with tidings about a new victim and ended his grim account with "It happened in the bedroom", prompting a snort from Dean, which Castiel, at the time, was vocal to criticize.

Now, it would seem like the greatest violation to set foot in that particular room. A part of him seemed to relish this notion, as his body was willing its way towards her bedroom door.

Upon closer inspection, the door was ajar, and required only a slight nudging of his knuckles to have it open to his satisfaction. As soon as this move was done, there was a sudden rush of wind at his feet, and there was Rembrandt the cat, patrolling his master's only remaining room which had yet to be deflowered by the angel's unsought presence.

This admirable display of duty nearly achieved in bringing Castiel to his senses, _nearly_ awoke his moral sense to provide him the wherewithal to rightly get the heck out of there, but as soon as the door had opened and Rembrandt had emerged, all surviving rationality was overwhelmed by the scent of her. Sugar, spice and everything nice, and something curiously provocative too; she smelled the way she tasted.

There was definitely no stopping him now.

Castiel shifted to one side in order to sidestep the cat, but Rembrandt followed suit, obstructing him. He shifted to the other side, and again, he followed. This happened a couple more times before they fell into an impasse, both parties gauging the other through narrowed eyes, until the angel was left with no choice.

The feline stiffened like a fainting goat when the man vanished suddenly. Then, there was a flutter of wings from behind, and when he poked his head around, Castiel couldn't help but smirk at the way his beady eyes widened at the sight of him.

He swept his hand in a shooing motion, and with a comical meow that sounded very much like a stock audio effect, the cat slid backwards as though it was being sucked by a vacuum cleaner, and the bedroom door slammed shut. Castiel gave the room a proud little smile, as though it were his only audience to appreciate his act of cleverness.

There was a novelty of being in her bedroom that kept him there longer than he would like to admit. Thankfully, the room provided more than this, as it happened to be the most illuminative of all her rooms.

It seemed that she roller-bladed, she's been to London, she's met Ben Stiller, she read David Sedaris, she's a huge fan of _Grease_, she collected cocktail umbrellas, she's a Mac, and there was the startling knowledge that, upon discovering a tiny carton of little wrappers in her bedside drawer, she liked to have some good, _protected_ fun. His mouth made an 'O' of surprise as he jogged this drawer shut, pretending he never saw that but vowing to feel ashamed about it later.

A high school year book told him that she had graduated the same year as Sam. He also found a copy of _The Origin of Species_ by Charles Darwin. He sneered privately at the thought of Darwin, then dimmed realizing that it was a text she likely credited. That was until he picked up the book and heard a rattling sound, opened it and found it hollowed out and filled with Skittles.

He didn't know whether to laugh or roll his eyes.

There was another stack of books settled next to her iPad. The Bible, in its intended state, and several other books to assist interpreting the Bible. Either he had become an influence or she was reviewing both sides of a potential debate and wanted to be intellectually prepared. He smiled. That was something to look forward to.

Her bathroom didn't tell him anything except that she was in a rush this morning, and her walk-in wardrobe ... the fact that it was a full walk-in wardrobe alone told him she liked fashion. Polaroids of her and her friends, posing and having fun, were blu-tacked along the edges of the wall-sized mirror.

His fingers had just begun to stroke the lipstick smudge that had been kissed onto the mirror when his head whipped up at the sound of jingling keys.

She was home.

He wavered on the spot. He should leave. He _should _leave. He should fly away right now.

Then why was he simply shutting himself in her wardrobe instead?

He pushed the doors open the slightest, forming a narrow gap he could spy through (at this point, Castiel chose to procrastinate feeling ashamed about _everything_), and in she came with a weary groan. Not far behind was Rembrandt, lithely padding in; his slitted eyes darted around the room, searching for the trespasser.

The honorable thing to do would be to just leave! Materialize elsewhere, right now!

But. She was taking off her jacket. Randy burlesque music began to play in his mind, but he shook it out, forcing it to a screeching halt.

The time to leave had never, ever been more appropriate!

The very familiar looking boots went flying somewhere as she kicked them off and down went her stockings.

He should really, _really_ be leaving.

"Rembrandt, I had _the_ crappiest day," she grumbled, as the feline curled around her legs, its head dipping vigilantly. "I was late for my interview - there's noway they're gonna hire me as their set photographer now; I was groped on the subway, and while that's nothing new, this guy's fingers were either covered in powdered sugar or cocaine –"

The skirt sunk to the floor. Why was he still here?

"I was hit by a car! Well, it reversed into me, they weren't even looking. Assholes. And I slipped over again! In the snow! I'm soaked and I'm freezing my ass off because of that. Let me tell you, I'm not wearing those boots again. Castiel was right," she mumbled miserably. Within his (known) presence, she wouldn't have allowed herself to sound so resigned.

"So now, I'm gonna take a bath." Rembrandt meowed urgently, which could have translated to "No, wait! You have to see this!". She shooed him, mistaking it for something else. "Yeah yeah, I'll review my stills later. Serenity now!"

And then she stripped off her sweater. A gasp escaped him at the sight of skin (even more so), and a hand flew up to cover his mouth when the cat cocked its head in his direction. Alas, he had been caught! Even from a distance and a lack of comprehensive sight, Castiel detected victory in the cat's eyes.

This was definitely the time to go! Audrey had already slipped into the bathroom, so there was nothing worth staying for.

Wait a minute, she was about to take a bath ... there was _definitely_ something worth staying for!

Castiel mentally slapped himself. No, it was time to leave!

He opened the closet doors, willingly letting his presence be known to the cat, as though to boast his success in hiding. The cat hissed at him, and to his surprise, before he vanished, he did the same.

* * *

"And you're sure this doesn't have any of those suspicious additives? 'Cause I was watching Oprah today and she ate this muffin, and she, like, blew up into the size of a frickin' – have you seen Willy Wonka and Chocolate Factory? Like Violet! Violet Beauregard! She just _whoof!_ Just like that, on air! Did you see it?"

"I did," Gabriel replied through a tight, self-incriminating grin, though this lady was too obtuse to perceive it as such. "That Gordon Ramsay..." he trailed off into an incredulous laugh, shaking his head.

From a booth across the room but still within earshot, Castiel observed this exchange between Gabriel and a customer with muted interest. He didn't know who Oprah was until just minutes before, when Gabriel grandly gestured the television, holding that pose until Castiel caught the drift of this motion in regards to the poor black woman on screen who had taken one bite out of a seemingly innocent muffin before beginning to inflate like a balloon, much to the horror of her live audience and the morbid amusement on guest Gordon Ramsay's face.

So _that _was what Gabriel, or rather, the Trickster, was up to today.

Finally, when the customer was convinced she would not undergo the same fate, she left Starbucks with her blueberry muffin in hand. Once she was out of view, Gabriel met Castiel's gaze and nodded vigorously with a wicked grin, and made an expanding motion with his hands, indicating that she would, in fact, undergo the same fate. Having no intention of adding to his joy, Castiel leveled his gaze elsewhere.

It had been an hour since he left Audrey's home, and between that time and now, he had felt obligated to redeem himself to, well, himself. He felt dirty. So, within an hour, he temporarily resolved world hunger and rescued a cat from a tree (this was especially done for the feline race as regards to Rembrandt). Ultimately, he didn't find it very redemptive. He _still_ felt dirty.

But at long last, with Gabriel now seated across from him, Castiel was finally able to do what he had initially planned on doing earlier that day.

His report of his recent encounter with Audrey (the mutual one from the day before) was immediately responded with a mock cough comprising of a poorly hidden "Slut!", which earned Gabriel a very foul glare.

"You're wrong."

"Maybe," replied Gabriel, his tone intentionally cryptic as his eyes danced mirthfully, knowing this was likely to antagonize. "One of us must be."

"She is not loose," Castiel asserted. Internally, he was fidgeting, sensing that he may be rationalizing, but didn't allow this to betray him externally. "She is just... exceedingly comfortable with her sexuality."

As he spoke, he watched, with growing indignation, as Gabriel nodded with what was clearly abstract comprehension as opposed to sincere understanding.

"Uh huh, uh huh... Spoken like a true slut!"

Instead of allowing that to irk him, his gaze deadpanned. "My words, not hers."

"Oh, sorry," he relented, before producing another fake cough with an even more poorly hidden, "In denial!".

Castiel's eyes flared hotly. "You are _wrong_."

His droll grin suggested the questionable strength of Castiel's own confidence in himself, which threw him immediately. Gabriel's amused eyes held him captive for a moment, enough to make him realize his own uncertainties in the matter, but not enough to make that manifest itself.

Eventually, he was relieved of this shrewd gaze, as Gabriel resumed more thoughtfully. "If you ask me, what you two have is a circumstantial relationship."

"I didn't ask you."

Gabriel substituted what would have been a laugh for a pasted look of hurt.

"Hey! I'm just sayin', it's possible! You veer from your usual environment, which involves a lot of bloodshed, paranormal activity and a couple of alpha males, and then you pop up in a completely different environment, meet a completely different type of person - let alone a _female_, hellooo - maybe this whole thing is circumstantial!" Castiel's exasperated regard had progressively slipped into one of striking curiosity, prompting him to conclude. "Maybe you're only drawn to her because she's very different to what you're accustomed to. Like an alien!" Gabriel jolted suddenly and blew out a breath. "Is it just me, or is there a lot of irony in here?"

Castiel's gaze, now blank, dropped to the table. He was genuinely stunned by the potentiality of this theory. "I refuse to believe that," he said numbly.

"Ah, but you see the potential in that case, don't you?" Gabriel indicated with a point of his finger, his tone aggravatingly knowing.

As he began to contemplate, a conscious part of him ensured his eyes never met with Gabriel's, as he was alarmingly perceptive. Much more than Sam and/or Dean, though it shouldn't be surprising.

If the model wise-man was usually a senior citizen, Gabriel was the wisest of them all. Although he was still congenitally an angel, having rebelled from Heaven all those centuries ago and deciding to reside within (but not part of) the human race had advanced his wisdom in a way that Castiel could only envy. What Gabriel had lost in repute, he had earned in intelligence, sophistication and perception. He could but didn't need to read Castiel's mind to know what he was thinking, hence why he averted his gaze at this very moment.

Gabriel's theory _should_ have been received with approval. The notion that this, what he and Audrey had, was just an extraordinary circumstance. A chance curiosity he was abandoning himself in - like the time he had taken shots with the late Ellen Harvelle - which he had yet to rise above. Considering where his duties were concerned, Gabriel's theory _should_ have been encouraging. It should have served as a relief to know that this was a minor distraction within his main responsibility of keeping the state of the supernatural on earth in balance.

What he didn't want Gabriel to perceive was that it didn't. In actuality, Castiel disliked the idea of diminishing it as such. He felt something; he didn't know what, but the fact that he _felt_ was enough to convince him that this wasn't just another curious little phenomenon on earth.

It seemed that the entire time he was thinking, Gabriel was doing similar, and once again, he began to demonstrate his admirable intellectual capacity.

"Hey... have you heard of the Goldilocks principle?"

Castiel frowned, anticipating a rascally grin to follow, but it never came. This meant Gabriel was serious, despite his playful tone.

"I'm aware of the story about Goldilocks and the Three Bears," he guardedly offered, pausing for a moment for that rascally smile to emerge, but it never did, "but I fail to see where you're heading regardless."

"Well, surely, you remember that the story involves Goldilocks, however without consent, trying out certain things within their little nest," his playful tone then dropped to one unexpectedly serious, "and finding that perfection, the _ideal_, doesn't lie within the extremes. Like the beds, the chairs, the porridge..."

Castiel nodded dumbly, trying to fathom his point. "The principle is simple and logical," he paused when Gabriel's eyes lit up indicatively, but when he did not speak, he resumed, "hence why it is a children's story."

"Exactly!" he locked his gaze with his, grinning, "It's simple, logical and very effective and very insightful, _for you."_

The suggestion in his tone was present but undisclosed. Castiel eyed him skeptically for a lengthy moment. "What are you suggesting?"

His willingness awakened a sense of ambition in Gabriel, demonstrated by the scheming grin that slowly emerged on his face.

"Okay - the Goldilocks principle usually applies to astronomy, so then let's pretend your pretty little squeeze is a planet in the solar system. How do you know if the planet is capable of "sustaining life" if it's the only planet you know within that universe?"

Once again, Gabriel proved himself to be decidedly perceptive, much to Castiel's dismay. He sensed comprehension in him, and smirked, his voice then dropping to a cunning lilt. "_I_ think it's time you did a little social experiment. Go to completely different environments, meet completely different girls –" At this point, Castiel was grimacing already, "– and then you'll get a concept of where your social predispositions lie. You never know, this girl may rank as a ninety-nine, when who you'd truly desire would rank somewhere in the fifties, but you can't determine it yet since she's the only female you really know!"

Castiel quickly understood this all with growing panic. He really wanted him to stop making so much sense.

"But –"

"And! If you decide that you're still interested in," he made a dubious little sound, "whatsherface –"

"Audrey."

"– then consider my theory wide of the mark!"

* * *

So basically, extreme speed dating. And twenty chapters, huzzah! What has been your favorite so far?

Read and review :)


	20. Voulez Vous Coucher Avec Moi?

It was all a big joke in his expense, wasn't it? Castiel, the angel of the Lord, in Las Vegas, the city of sin. While it could be said that this was the handiwork of a demon, there was an equal chance that the folks upstairs were simply demonstrating their sense of humor. Bets were probably being made that very instant in earnest. Apprehension was written all over his face, foiling what could have been an impressive entrance into The Venetian. Nope - instead, while his stride argued confidence, the pained expression he wore which read "I can_not_ believe I am doing this!" belied that.

Not one hour later, he parted crowds with his sour exit, bearing a newly reddened cheek, smelling of fleetingly airborne martinis and the new and undesirable knowledge that his vessel's nether regions were oh-so, _very_ fragile. Why was it that Dean couldn't punch him and achieve its desired effect but a woman could kick him between the legs and introduce a pain he'd never known?

So here he was: leaning against a parked cab, using his fingers to comb out the caviar in his hair, and lacking the dignity he had renounced the moment he arrived.

"What did you do?" sang out a displeased voice.

Mid-combing, he froze. He peered into the cab, and there was Gabriel, sitting in the driver's seat, pretending to read a newspaper. It was then neatly folded up and forgotten as he flashed him a smile.

"Are you following me?" Castiel asked, appalled.

Gabriel made a dubious face. "_Nnnn_yes and no. I told you, my biz is here and New York. Thought I might check up on you, see how you're doing." His consideration was contradicted by an evil grin. Oh God, was he witness to that horror? Castiel stilled himself, making every effort not to let his paranoia betray him.

"I'm fine."

There was a sly flicker in his eyes in response. That was not encouraging. "Given the undignified stance..._ III'd_ say no."

Castiel gave himself a self-conscious glance. He had been bending his knees awkwardly, as though he desperately needed to use the bathroom. Trust Gabriel to put two and two together.

"Painful, ain't it?" Castiel's withering stare failed to faze his amusement. "Oh well," he reached over and opened the door for him, "don't let that discourage you - assuming you'll score eventually, you'll experience the exact opposite during intercourse!"

Castiel had just settled into the passenger seat when he said this, taking him by surprise. "Bluntness wasn't necessary," he said flatly.

"But, that _is_ the term you used in there, right?" Oh. Oh God. The knowing wag of his eyebrows was like salt in the wounds. At Castiel's pained look, he smugly added, "I have very acute hearing!"

"Are you here to taunt me," Castiel asked, impatience rising, "or are you here to serve as some guidance?"

"Hoho, don't you worry, thou shalt be taunted further," he simpered diabolically, "but first things first - I'm here to point you in the right direction. Why are you in Vegas?"

Bewildered, he frowned. It was as though he had been asked why he was sitting in the passenger seat when he had been the one to let him in! "You suggested I go to a different environment...?"

"Uh, _yeah_, and how is this different? Flashing lights? Nightlife? Hot girls? Why look even, there's Little Red right there," he said, pointing forward.

"That's a prostitute."

"Look, just avoid the US of A altogether. American girls within your vessel's demographic are like MTV: hot but mindless - so you can just forget it." Gabriel granted him no time to argue otherwise. "Hey! I'll even get you started!" A purposeful glint ignited in his eyes as he raised both hands in preparation. "Suit up, trench down, that is how you get around!"

And with the snaps of his fingers, both angels vanished.

* * *

_Baa, baa!_

There were sheep. This was either New Zealand or Wales.

"Oi! Darren! Wot's all this about you knockin' about with my missus?"

He was in Wales. Most likely Cardiff. He glanced down at himself. Sans trench coat too, apparently. Its absence made him realize that it had always served as a metaphorical piece of armor. Now he felt naked and vulnerable.

How unfortunate that consciousness to his social faux pas arrived at a delayed rate. At last, he knew ... the key was subtlety! Should he ever want to engage in such sexual congress with say, _Audrey_ - an indecent gleam unknowingly appeared in his eyes - advances would be made through a verbal filter, not as he had done so candidly in Vegas. Needless to say, this was allllll _hypothetical_ (he even failed to notice the way he frowned at this additional thought). Of course, naturally, as one would expect, certainly, obviously, clearly, hypothetical, hypothetical...

This internal dialog could be read plainly on his face, but the woman he was currently conversing with was too in love with the sound of her own voice to notice. Her name was Gwen and, as intended, she had nothing in common with Audrey. Except perhaps her quirky fashion sense. He would argue differently, but it was what initially drew him to her. Though, it was difficult to be fond of her when her idea of a reasonable date was to get "shit-faced" (her sterling vocabulary, not his) at her local pub.

Gwen spoke very fast, frighteningly fast, seldom allowing breaks for effect or even for response. Her mouth functioned like a speeding train, and he could only watch in awe. It preyed him that she may not acquire enough oxygen, so rather than listening to her, he was acutely awaiting signs of asphyxiation.

"Sothisslagtodaygavemetheevils, youknowwhotImean? Y'knowhowsomeonegivesyoualook, theypretendthey'renotbuttheyare, andyou'relikeyougotaproblemlove? Andthey'relike, nonotatall - whatmakesyouthinkthat? Imeanlikecomeonlike, she'sagirlwhoshaggedtheirboss, yeah? AndshethinksthatI –"

His thoughts wandered to Audrey, and how she would accomplish her quirky ensemble so much more. Red band leader jacket, black and white striped blouse, a black tutu made out something shiny, thigh high boots that were equally as shiny, fishnet stockings... There was a very vintage elegance about her, no matter what she wore or how she acted, and Gwen just looked to be trying a little too hard. And she was noticeably heavier than Audrey, given that she sort of bulged out of her fishnets, making her legs look quite unappealing. She really ought to cover them up.

Audrey, on the other hand, shouldn't need to ... no, she had very, _very_ nice legs –

"Oi!" Her fingers snapped before his eyes. "Mahfaceisuphere!"

He had the grace to look rueful. "My apologies."

"Alrightlovelet'sjustgetdowntobusinessyeah?" She paused, she _actually_ paused to allow him to respond.

Puzzled, he cocked his head. "What business?"

Her lips stretched to a hideous grin.

"Awww, babe. You are too cute," she said at a coherent pace, before inelegantly bounding onto the table (knocking over her drinks - yes, that's plural - in the process) and roughly yanking him forward so they would meet for a messy kiss with far too much tongue than necessary. His arms were suspended in the air, unsure of what to do with them, so he just sat there and reluctantly obliged, as one would do for an unpleasant dental procedure.

The kiss(es) with Audrey were pleasant. This was just _wrong. _This was no different to how a dog would greet their beloved keeper!

_Ring! Ring!_

He broke the kiss (and heedlessly pushed her off him and onto the floor) with a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank you Father," he choked out, standing to leave and frantically patting himself down for his phone.

From the floor, a tipsy Gwen squinted up at him as though he were a neon light that was harsh to look at. "Wot?"

"Forgive me - I must take this call," he said, slowly backing out of the bar, and jolted to a sprint once he was out the door.

The bartender, who had had his eyes fixed on their table the entire time, tittered quietly to himself as he polished a beer mug dry.

"This bowl of porridge is too hot."

* * *

Her name was Naomi. He had a good feeling about her.

She was the type of honest girl he and the brothers would encounter during cases. The type who would cooperate generously and then, after the brothers disposed of the threat, present them with a heartfelt "Thank you" - and perhaps a goodbye kiss to whichever brother she had attracted - before they drove off into the sunset once again. These type of girls had never pulled his regard beyond his main obligation to them. It was always strictly professional. Now, he had the chance to pay attention to one of these type without responsibilities hanging over his head.

Nothing about Naomi repelled him, but nothing had yet to fascinate him either. Audrey was a bit of a freak, without the benefit of the supernatural, and he found that interesting. Naomi was so... _ordinary_. He was fond of her eyes though. They were a brilliant blue, just like a certain other young woman's.

_O__ne_ notable factor about her was that she was one hundred per cent Christian, and it was at a church fete that they socialized.

"Isn't it lovely that they built a great big park right next to our beloved hoase of God?"

Castiel, who had been walking with her, stopped for a beat. _Hoase _of God? Oh right, he forgot - he was in Canada. Not quite the US of A. His walk resumed, quickly catching up with her. He cleared his throat and seamlessly slipped into his own Canadian accent.

"It is. Unfortunately, it looks like it's goan to rain fer a while."

"Toadally," she agreed, smiling grimly. "Do you think if we were to pray, God would make sherr it wouldn't rain anymoar?"

He frowned at her. "I doat it."

She smiled wryly. "Dohn't be such a Doatin' Thomas!" Then, what he thought was her keeling over was actually a fluid move down to a kneeling position. With closed eyes, she beckoned him to follow (which he didn't), and then held her hands in a prayer. "Dear heavenly father; although there is beaudy in all weather, rain oar dry –"

"What're you doin'?" he asked incredulously, casting a gaze around. The lack of an audience told him that this apparently wasn't out of the norm. "God doesn't manage the weather."

She opened one eye and frowned up at him with it. "Excuse me Father, fer just a few minutes as I address this skeptic." _Him? _A skeptic? He ought to laugh in her face! Instead, his mouth fell open in indignation while she rose to her feet, addressing him with great confidence, "Isaiah 45:7, "I form the light and create darkness, I bring prosperidy and create disaster, I the Lord do all these things"."

"Yes, he does _command_ it, but manage it, he does not. He does not cader to yerr needs. God is imperfect. He may be absolute, but not perfect."

"Yes he is!" she shot back heatedly. "God is perfect! God is one and all! A nonpareil! It's what He's all aboat!"

"Entiredy does not equate perfection."

"It does in God's instance!"

The metaphorical second head she sprouted bore her true colors. He eyed it bewilderedly. "No, it_ doesn't._"

"Does to!"

"Does not."

"Does to!"

"Does not."

"Does –" He held up a hand, silencing her for a thought. This wasn't working either! She was too religious! Too faithful! And was just as stubborn as any Athiest and would not accept anything less than the dogma they were acquainted with. Not to mention all too reliant on her Bible, where the truth had been lost in translation. At least Audrey kept an open mind, although, he felt, involuntarily so.

He turned to speak, to inform her that he needed to leave, but she had once again knelt down and immersed herself in superfluous prayer. This gave him the opportunity to furtively depart the scene.

The man who had handled the offertory bag during the service turned around from chatting with a group of people, and smirked in the direction of where Castiel was heading.

"And this bowl of porridge is too cold."

* * *

As he refined his conduct towards women, his ability to discern their faults quickened. Some, however, left nothing to the imagination. Take this instance for example:

"Guten Abend meine Dame," he had greeted a German young lady in the gentlemanly manner he was beginning to master, and as boldly as she was beautiful, she had ardently responded with:

"Ich möchte, daß du Bitte fick mich hart von hinten, jetzt und hier, verführerischer Mann!"

In the distance, an elderly woman fainted. Blood filled his cheeks and he blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. He ought to feel scandalized, but he had been swept by a surprising sense of admiration.

"That was very bold of you to say," he murmured, his voice hushed with incredulity.

"Thank you!" she exclaimed, startling him; he didn't know she could speak English. "So... yes?"

"Ye – no! No, _nein_. I apologize, madam, but I have no interest in doing... _that_, to you."

"Oh," she sighed, trudging away despondently.

The failures didn't end there. Rose was too clingy, Mai was too quiet, April was too unintelligent ("I love Obama's tan!"), Jade was too butch, Stefani was too loud, Sharon was too lesbian (his mistake), Wendy was too delusional and emotional, Maria was too scientific and serious, and the Winchester brothers were too ... them. Yes, after being discouraged for so long by women, he tried men. This brief, experimental gambit ultimately deemed unsuccessful, though he should have expected that the two heterosexual Winchester brothers would not appreciate him coming on to them.

"What?" Dean had asked - _barked_, to be precise, peering at the angel through the rear view mirror with growing discomfort. Castiel had been staring at him for quite some time, and though his main intention was to leer (or rather, find something about Dean to leer at), he had been more regarding him as though he were a strange and rare plant.

"You have very green eyes. They are nice."

Disturbed, Dean had side-eyed Sam for help. Sam, however, had sought to appear oblivious by idly flicking through their father's journal, though the smirk tugging the corner of his lips betrayed him.

Disgruntled that he was left to fend for himself, he glowered at the road ahead. But the prickly sensation of the angel's stare had him stealing a glance back up at the mirror, and when he saw that this stare didn't seem to be going anywhere, he exploded.

"You're gonna have a black one if you don't quit staring!"

This seemed to roll right off the angel, who then directed his gaze at his brother.

"And Sam –" Sam had stiffened immediately, unprepared for Castiel's sudden attention, "you are very tall."

Pause.

"Uh. That's more of an observation, but thanks, Cas, er, thanks."

A long, distressing silence had ensued; both brothers engaged in a silent discussion through oblique glances ("Is he gonna say something else?", "I have no idea, but I am seriously freaked out."), while Castiel slumped back in his seat, crossing the boys off from his mental check list. In retrospect, he was glad _this_ experiment failed. An intimate relationship with either one of these humans? It was then that the angel became the third party in their suffocating ring of discomfort.

Much to the brothers' not-so-discreet relief, he informed them that he needed to leave, and it wasn't until he vanished that they shared a breath of relief.

"Crank the volume up and let us never speak of that again?"

"Read my mind, Sammy."

* * *

"Spare me, brother, I beg of you," groaned Castiel, sinking back on bench in exhaustion. Exhausted from all the different words from all the different languages from all the different time zones of all the different girls! Not to mention having to first _choose_ a girl wore him out in advance. Gabriel materialized next to him in an instant, garbed in archetypal French attire. He even had a fake mustache.

"Nonsense, Monsieur!" he cried, boasting a French accent. With an emphatic gesture, he introduced the nearby Eiffel Tower into their conversation. "You are in _Paree_, ze city of love! You cannot fail!"

They were allowed no time to exchange glances in their usual manner, as they were silenced by the passing presence of a pretty lady. A breath became arrested in his throat; her hair was as brilliantly red as Audrey's. It felt wrong to be drawn to her for those reasons, but the figurative side of him already had its hand out, groping the air in need like a clingy child desiring their beloved teddy bear.

She was barely beyond earshot when Gabriel leaned over and furtively whispered from the corner of his mouth: "Fire in ze hole!"

Before Castiel could question that, Gabriel was on his feet and scurrying after her (in a bizarre way that involved skipping on his toes - à la Pepé Le Pew, perhaps?), dragging a reluctant angel with him.

"Bonjour, ma chérie dame!" he hailed grandly when he emerged at her side, hooking her attention and achieving a polite smile from her. Curiosity crossed her face when her eyes met with Castiel, who was standing dutifully behind Gabriel, not wanting to look too desperate but still wanting to be seen. Just when it appeared as though he would say something incredibly romantic and poetic, he dropped the accent and asked, "Haaaave you met Castiel?" before shoving him into her and fleeing in the same bizarre fashion.

Her name was Monique. To society's standards, she was perfect. Perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect nails, perfect weight, perfect height - had her hair been blond and her eyes blue (and assuming she wasn't Jewish), she would have been Hitler's first preference to represent his prized master race. He regarded it _all_ with reservation. Such perfection seemed so... abnormal. Even Audrey had her foibles; her Monstrous Pride That Ate Everything That Threatened It triumphing as the major one. And Monique was remarkably upbeat - not in an eccentric way like Audrey, but like a Disney princess. It wouldn't surprise him if she were to casually belt out a song about how wonderful she thought croissants were.

She had one imperfection, and because it was personal, it actually annoyed him greatly: she couldn't correctly pronounce his name. She would say it in that it would rhyme with "Bastille", and he would rather not associate himself with a former Parisian fortress-prison. His attempts at helping her with this dilemma were ineffective.

"Ca - sti - _el._"

"Ca - _steel._"

"Il y a trois syllabes. Ca - sti - _el._"

"Ca - _stee_ - yul."

His ambitious gaze flattened. "Ce n'est pas grave."

"... Ca - _stee_ - yul!"

He ran a weary hand down his face, but swiftly reverted back to his composed demeanor when she spun around to him.

"Would you like to see," her English filtered through a thick accent as she leaned in, as though to share a secret, "_ze birds?"_

His face twisted comically as the words "Yes" and "No" battled internally for release. Much to his dismay, a rather strangled utterance of "Yes" won.

To an onlooker, they resembled mimes, somehow communicating over the schmaltzy music played by the trio of accordionists who followed them around the city, turning it all into a huge self-parody. Said onlooker was then mugged, and the music even romanticized it.

An hour of bird-watching, cheese-admiring and watching-her-weep-over-the-immense-beauty-of-the-art-in-the-Louvre later, his resolve broke. He had made his decision. Manhattan was graced with the angel's reappearance minutes later, trench coat and all, power-walking towards a certain young woman. He had never been more grateful to see someone waving at their own reflection in the Times Square _Toys 'R Us_ window. This was someone with a charismatic nature he had become addicted to. Conversing with her was intellectually stimulating. Looking at her was... another kind of stimulating.

Mid-wave, he grabbed her shoulder, spun her around to face him, and while a million different actions suggested themselves his mind, he chose to simply stare at her gratefully.

"Castiel? Um, hi?"

"Hello."

"Uh, are you alright? You're not blinking."

"I'm just very happy to see you."

"I didn't ask whether you had a gun in your pocket."

His grateful stare contorted bemusedly, but quickly softened, appreciating and finding her cheekiness comforting. Gabriel was wrong - this wasn't circumstantial; he really did feel something for her. It was then that he realized, with untimely alarm, that this was the first time they had spoken since the incident in the backroom. He made a very conscious move of releasing her shoulder.

"Why were you waving at your reflection?" he asked in a hasty attempt to be conversational.

She jolted, remembering. "Oh! There's a little girl in the window –" She turned and pointed; indeed there was a girl in the display window, regarding them both with wide-eyed curiosity. "– see?" She elbowed him lightly. "Wave at her!"

Yielding, he gave the little girl a small wave. The girl giggled, and shyly crawled out of view. He felt Audrey's elbow nudge him again.

"Ooh, she likes you!" she teased. "Let's go meet her!"

Before he could protest, she yanked him through the store's revolving doors, and all he could do was stare longingly at anywhere but the door - he'd had just about enough of meeting new girls today!

This was forgotten the moment his eyes laid upon the heart of the store. It was so vivid and noisy and buzzing with young energy and there was a Ferris wheel _inside_ the store! If the Winchesters and their world didn't seem so faraway before, it did now. Being with them now would have meant watching them argue over whose socks were whose while the motel's radiator clicked in the corner.

"Hi sweetie, what's your name?"

He turned to the sound of Audrey's voice; it seemed that she had located the little girl and was kneeling down to address her.

"Ophelia!" came her proud reply.

Her regard traveled back to him, whispering loudly. "Like from Hamlet!" Then, her gaze darted to and from either one of them, an idea forming, and before he could even convey suspicion, she hopped up and pulled him forward. "Ophelia, this is my friend, Castiel." He stilled when her hand drifted up to caress his face, while she held eye contact with the girl. "Isn't he handsome?"

"He must be a prince!" she gasped. Audrey, as though she had never met the man standing right next to her, gasped with her. Soon enough, her wonder spread like a plague.

"Where's a prince?"

"Him! Him! _He's_ a prince! _He's_ a prince!"

After an eruption of hyperactive squeals about a prince, and a random utterance of "Purple Rain" in the background, he found himself with an audience of little girls, no older than six, standing expectantly before him. Seeing them form a Great Wall of Children between he and Audrey suggested their questionable future.

"Are you _REALLY_ a prince?" huffed an outrageously skeptical little girl. Most likely the oldest, who thus thought herself to be entitled to being right all the time.

"Uh," his eyes darted up to Audrey for help and she merely beckoned him to play along, "... er, yes?"

"Where's your princess?"

"ME! ME ME ME!" screamed Ophelia, tugging his hand like rag doll. She was freakishly strong. "_I_ am! He waved to me!"

"Wow," he heard Audrey murmur, "if that's a form of courtship, I must be a massive sllll–" she caught a sharp look from one of the parents, "– s-symbol of polygamy."

A woman trickily negotiated her way through the congregation of little girls, stopping to crouch down to Ophelia.

"Ophie, honey, we have to go now," she said with a fixed yet loving gaze. It was her mother.

"But my prince!" she cried, pulling at his hand in an insistent frenzy. He would really like to reclaim control over his hand now.

"We're having dinner at Chuck E. Cheese!"

"CHUCK E. CHEESE!" she screamed, tearing her hand away from his and sprinting out the door so fast he felt the wind rush through his hair.

"Tsk. She's just as Shakespeare wrote her," Audrey sighed fondly.

An unsmiling businessman, who gave the impression of regarding everything with skepticism, appeared next to the mother, who was smiling tenderly as though the sight of her screaming child warmed her heart. This man gauged Castiel suspiciously.

"You always surround yourself with little girls?" he asked, not bothering to mask the hostility in his tone. Thankfully, Audrey rushed in to save the day before he said something stupid.

"Oh no no, it's okay!" she exclaimed, curling her arm around Castiel's. Oh, how he's missed this. "He's with me!"

The woman delivered her husband a scolding smack on the arm. "I _told_ you!" she clamored. She directed a roll of her eyes to the pair of them, as though he wasn't standing right there. "I mean, it's so obvious by the way he looks at you. Sorry. Anyway, you folks have a nice night!"

The couple exited, abandoning them in an awkward situation. They both wore matching blushes as they stood frozen. Time seemed to resume normal flow the moment they began to stir from their frozen states, steering them into a place where evidence of that awkward moment laid just at their feet. Mouths opened in unintended unison to speak, spawning another uncomfortable spell, but then something else genuinely prodded her attention.

"Have you been drinking?" she asked, pulling away, sniffing. "I detect maple syrup too, the glorious smell of the Canada." Her eyes narrowed. "Come to think of it, your accent has been off all night."

He gave her a clueless glance. "I'm soary, I don't knoh what yer talking aboat." His eyes flew open, realizing. She grinned. "I was... visiting a friend who lives in Canada," he explained.

"Ooh I _love_ Canadians!" she gushed, as though they were a fascinating species.

"Yes," he said absently. His mind had wandered back to his conversation with Dean. Perhaps this was a chance to... provoke her? "_Yes_," he repeated emphatically, "and she is a very nice _girl_. She's nice - she's, she's better than nice." Her teasing look had him stumbling over the words.

Her look then softened into something either genuinely contented or quietly restraining resentment. "I'm happy for you."

The wonted reaction would be to smile appreciatively, but instead he held her captive with his persistent gaze, awaiting her to break and exhibit jealousy, but she merely smiled innocently.

A sales assistant dressed as an elf interrupted their staring contest.

"Mr. Claus hath beseeched that this be delivered to the Pretty White Girl With Red Hair yonder," he informed in a monotone, with a yawn to match, as he presented her with a card.

"What?" she turned the card over, only to quickly flip it back when Castiel had leaned in for a peek.

"Black Santa thinks you're cute," the mock elf deadpanned, pointing listlessly in the direction of the store's version of Santa Claus, portrayed by an African American.

While it looked as though she regarded it all as a cute joke, she then stole a cunning glance at Castiel from the corners of her eyes - a move he did _not_ fail to notice - and made an impulsive decision.

"Tell him I'll be right over!" she notified the elf, flashing him her pageant smile. Before he could help himself, Castiel let out a small scoff. "_What?_"

"You're trying to make me jealous," he smirked.

"Am not!"

"You're a terrible liar."

"Oh, and you expect me to believe your Canadian girl friend story?"

She flustered him into honesty. "What's not to believe?" he asked, frowning. "Her name is Naomi Matthews, she lives in Edmonton, Alberta; she is a Baptist Christian –"

"And she's always up fer a mean old game of ice-hockey,_ eh?"_ She smiled apologetically at the dull expression he pulled. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't stereotype." Across the room, Black Santa winked at her. In response, she raised her hand and made a very ghetto gesture. "Holla!"

"What is your decision?" he asked, the silkiness in his tone attracting her attention. "Are you consorting with Father Christmas tonight," he moved towards her, "or with me?"

His emerging coquetry invited her to play, and she began to smile in approval. "Well... he offers presents, reindeer and candy canes. What can _you_ offer?"

He dipped his head, as though to acknowledge this as a valid point, and then presented her a dark gaze. Interest filled her eyes, curious about the significance of such a gaze, when he unexpectedly reached forward and brushed a single finger along her cheek, leaving behind nothing but a tingling trail. He held his finger up at her. An eyelash.

She snorted good-naturedly, "You're offering me a wish?"

"You don't want it?" he asked with feigned uncertainty, drawing his finger away.

"No, give it!" she shouted dumbly, seizing his hand forward and holding him there. There was five seconds of watching a range of expressions dance across her face as she decided upon her wish, before finally, she locked eyes with him and blew the eyelash away. It was... strangely erotic. Both seemed to realize exactly this, and while Castiel tried to pull away, she held him there with a bawdy grin. With some effort, he managed to reclaim his hand eventually, which left her pouting sullenly.

"Hm. Didn't come true," she huffed, pointedly ignoring the way his eyes grew wide with curiosity. "I think –" she began to back away, feigning innocence, "I'll go sit on Santa's lap and ask for it then."

He was beginning to like the teasing game, but because he had no ammunition for that, all he could do was purse his lips to one side and suppress the smile that threatened. With a lingering gaze that said that their game wasn't over, he turned and left.

A cab driver glanced at the angel through the rear view mirror, leaving the store looking thoroughly indulged. He pulled it down to himself, smirked slyly, and his face morphed into that of Gabriel's.

"And this bowl of porridge is just right."

* * *

Nearly 6000 words - this has gotta be my longest chapter. I realize why I'm so resentful of the longer chapters: they take fucking ages to edit.

I was going to post this last Wednesday but then decided to do a _complete_ rewrite (plus a bitch of an edit). And for what it's worth, I _love_ the Canadian accent! I'll stop making cultural jabs now.

Read and review, eh?


	21. Spring Awakening

It would seem that reconvening at Starbucks had become something of a convention.

"So," Gabriel clapped his hands together in a motivational gesture as he marched to Castiel's table, "in conclusion?"

With solid conviction, his simple answer was: "I want her."

To that level, he was confident. Anything stemming beyond that, however, posed a glowing question mark. "Wanting" was such a foreign concept to him. Angels did not "want", nor did they require possessions. He "wanted" certain things on another's behalf - for the Lord, the Winchesters, humanity - but for himself? It was unheard of. All he could conclude was that whatever he wanted, in whatever sense he was wanting, he could only find in Audrey. Nobody else appeased that elusive demand. Nobody else, to put it colloquially, scratched that itch.

It was then that Gabriel inadvertently illuminated just _how_ he wanted her exactly.

"Want her the way you want that sugar?"

His inattentive gaze shot up to Gabriel, who wore that knowing grin which never failed to unnerve him. Though, he wondered what precisely there _was_ to know. "What?"

"Face down, rear up, giving everything she's got?"

Blink. He wavered between feeling affronted and just downright nonplussed. "..._what?_"

His grin broadened in an "I just caught you with your pants down" manner. He wagged his eyebrows and gave a meaningful downwards nod. Castiel's gaze dropped down to his hands. The sugar dispenser was being fondled. By him. It was held with the bottom facing the air, the lid against the table resulting in spillage of sugar.

Oh. So _that's_ what he wanted. Just as this hit him, he stumblingly sent it as far across the table as possible, eying it as though it had caused him a great injustice.

In the split second before Gabriel turned to busy himself at the counter, Castiel's discriminating eye had caught sight of his scrutiny of him. His gaze had been calculating, but lacking its usual levity.

"Does my conclusion disappoint you?" he asked.

After a long pause, wherein he felt he was being ignored, Gabriel turned back around, surprising him with an armful of sweets, and somehow managing a steaming cappuccino within it.

"To be quite honest with you, Cas? I didn't expect this," he said in a genuinely relenting tone and shrug to match, as he settled the desserts onto Castiel's table, deliberately missing his quizzical glance in the process. "A teenage boy doesn't seek _twu wuv_ - he goes out to fornicate with the hopes he doesn't procreate!"

Castiel narrowed his eyes, unable to see relevance. "I'm neither a teenage boy, nor am I seeking ... that."

Within the act of mustering even more sweets out of thin air, Gabriel suddenly stilled like a deer in headlights. Castiel's questioning glance surfaced as Gabriel recovered from whatever had inwardly struck him, and now stared at him. He tried to follow the way his shrewd eyes studied him like a mathematical formula, but lost course when - Gabriel's eyes ignited - he reached his destination.

"What are you thinking?" he asked lowly, hesitant to know the answer.

"Oh. Oh this is good. Oh this is better! This is –"

"What are you talking about?" he sought his gaze once more for further survey. It was hard to do so when Gabriel was flailing about, mulling over which chair to pull over to sit across from him.

Finally, sitting on one backwards, he asked, "Angels are sexless, correct?"

His tendency to look confused was decidedly ignored, knowing it would just be a waste of time. "Yes. Angels are neither male nor female, but have the potential to be slanted to either gender within the company and influence of humankind."

"Right!" Something sly crept into his bright gaze. "_She_ triggered and matured the masculine side of your being, so, in a way, you could say that you _are_ actually a man."

He didn't know how to respond to that. He actually looked around for a befitting answer. "... yes?"

"You're a man who skipped _everything!_ All the usual development a _human_ male would have had." There was an evocative glint in his eyes as he paused, awaiting their trains of thought to fall into harmony. His unnerving gusto had Castiel resisting grasp. Sensing this, he smirked and pressed further. "Your intellect is full and matured but some new... _masculine_ instincts are, aheh, pubescent."

He sat still in his seat, dithering. Some sort of interpretation had been made, but it seemed so outrageous to his own mind, that he wasn't sure if he had been thinking along the same lines.

"Are you implying I'm experiencing _puberty?_"

Hearing this verbalized elicited a guffaw from Gabriel, and also confirmed his deduction. "Kinda undignified to say, huh?" As Castiel glowered contemplatively down at the table, he scrutinized him  
thoughtfully. "But you're not going through the physical part of it... no, your vessel suffered that for you, _among other things_ –"

Blue eyes flared up at him severely. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't speak of my vessel at all."

There was a faint emergence of Gabriel's habitual smirk in response. "Puberty isn't the best term," he considered, resuming. After a minute's thought, there was a decided nod. "Sexual maturity. Yeah!"

He sat silently, the very image of strain. He was following perfectly well, but still didn't yet know the destination, nor was he sure he wanted to reach it. The ever-perceptive Gabriel sensed exactly this.

"Don't you get it?" he whispered fervently. "You have the impulses, _young_ impulses of a teenager!"

Instinctively, he glanced down at himself, his vessel. "I don't feel any different."

"That's 'cause I don't float your boat," he snorted. His mirth was adjourned by a sudden thought. A sly sparkle danced in his eyes, a clear indication the metaphorical devil was whispering in his ear. A perverted grin stretching across his face was the last thing Castiel saw before he morphed into the form of Audrey's. And in her voice, she – _he_ coquettishly asked, "How's _this_ to your liking, stud?"

Impulse induced him to ogle at this exact clone of her from The Night She Slipped Over On The Pavement. Logic dawned, unusually belatedly, and pulled him out of his trance.

"Gabriel!" he hissed. "Stop this at once! Audrey visits this place often and if she saw you, she would –" At this point, Castiel lost a lot of his bearing as she (er, _he_) tongued the cappuccino's teaspoon in a very suggestive manner, teasing him with her smoky bedroom eyes, "... she would... she'd... she –"

Her mouth opened and let out a very Gabriel-ish laugh, with that extended bray suggesting his amusement was at his expense. He was quick to resume his exaggeratedly ladylike conduct.

"Why?" Her flirty eyes batted as she twirled a finger in her hair. _His, he, his!_ "Is this turning you on?"

He disciplined himself to scowl at him, rather than gape at her. "For both our benefits, please, have some modeSTY!" The last bit jolted right out of him when he felt her leg trail up his.

"To hell with modesty and its limitations!" she raved with Gabriel's characteristic bravado. "But you get the gist, right? This right here," he gestured herself, "does something for you, doesn't it? She bothers you in a not-so-disagreeable way, am I right? You're warm for her form, right? _Hello?_"

Her fingers snapped before Castiel's eyes, ripping him away from the reverie he had shamefully abandoned himself in. When he came to, blinking in surprise, Gabriel rolled her eyes.

"Ya see? These instincts have you actin' a fool!" An idea passed over her eyes as they wandered to someone behind Castiel. "Let's see what would happen if I stuck her tongue down that guy's throat –"

Just as he moved to cross the room in pursuit of the stranger, Castiel briskly caught her arm, glaring murderously. "_Don't you dare._"

"Let go of her arm, or I'll stick her tongue down _your_ throat." It genuinely startled Gabriel when Castiel didn't move. In fact, he swore he saw something seep into his gaze that implied he wouldn't mind at all! "Uh, might I remind you that it's _me_, shameless Gabriel? Your BROTHER? We shared the same nonliteral fetus?"

This reality struck him and he promptly tore his hand away as though he had plunged his hand into a bag of the Winchester's dirty laundry. Rationality seemed to be running behind schedule lately!

"Stop this immediately!" he practically whined, meanwhile trying to maneuver his pleading gaze into something more menacing.

"But do you get my point?"

"Yes!"

"I don't think you do."

"I _do_, Gabriel!" he seethed, averting his eyes in desperation. It was impossible to direct his exasperation in Gabriel to her form! Her nice, nice form...

"You're staring again!" he teased.

He adopted his most authoritative tone. "Gabriel, if you do not put an end to this now –"

"Maybe more experiments are in order –"

"– I will kill you!" he snapped, finally exhausted of his graciousness. Gabriel simply laughed as he indulged in a deep breath, composing himself. "Change. Back."

There was a roll of her eyes. "Pshh, fine." He sat back down, reassumed original form and, as though Castiel wasn't sitting as flustered as he was right across from him, resumed talking. "Anyways! My point is there's only one possible target to suffer the reverberations of this, uh, psychological development, if you will: the girl who awakened the beast!" He paused for a response, but broke out into a grin when he saw that Castiel was still shaken. "See, this is the fun thing about pubescence. There will be desires fighting to be acted upon and challenging your self-possession."

He frowned, finally allowing himself to look at him. "That does not fall under the definition of fun."

"I never said it was fun for you," he grinned cheekily. "It's fun in theory, _frustrating_ for you. You have hormones of your own now. Testosterone, specifically; the chemical that gives nice little boys a "license to drive", but is useless without a car." Castiel's gaze clicked with his, suddenly very aware of the metaphor. "The longer they go without a car, the more frustrated they become, especially when they're in constant company of the one car they've had their eye on the entire time. When the time comes and they've earned that car, they jump inside and _vroom, vroom!_"

He briefly gave Gabriel a pained look as his thoughts turned inward. Never could he imagine himself behaving in such a way, even in the face of such an opportunity, but he expressed it so reasonably.

Staring absently at the table, he reviewed the entire conversation as far. So... the entirety of his being was matured - his intellect, his judgment, his competence - but certain instincts, _new_ instincts, were pubescent. Young. Young, impulsive, experimental, wild – oh Lord, what was becoming of him?

"My attraction is real but... _reckless_," he concluded, flinching on the word he never thought to ever characterize himself with.

Proud eyes commended him. "Bingo! Castiel, the infinity year old warrior of Heaven, wants to admire and cherish her like a commended gourmet meal, while Castiel, a recently developed _male_ with pubescent impulses, wants to, uh," his voice plunged to a suggestive lilt, "... play with his food."

* * *

There was a purposeful swagger in his step, but there was none to be fulfilled really. Rather, it was a mental nuisance pleading to be resolved. Seeking guidance from Gabriel was rapidly beginning to seem like a huge mistake, and the needling thing was that it wasn't because his advice was poor - on the contrary, it was truly insightful. _Too_ insightful. Such understanding of the visceral plane of humanity complicated things. Why did humans torture themselves so? Especially when it came to certain relationships; the type that compelled one to abandon all rationality and do... something...

However, it was somewhat pleasing to know that she wanted him the way he wanted her. The ball was in his court, despite it having been stolen when the other wasn't looking. One side of him twiddled it in his hands, unsure of its use; the other side of him wanted to play, and play dirty. Why, hello young man. Keen to play, are we?

To humans, some situations entailed a metaphorical shoulder angel and devil. His Situation (capitalized as it was significant but did not have its own noun) followed the same concept, but the two beings involved were himself (he was his own angel) and a frisky young man strutting across his shoulders who thought with _another_ part of its nonexistent anatomy. And it was neither his brain nor his heart. What he dreaded was the trouble (or _fun_, it may argue) this being was going to get him into, and how it was impossible to anticipate. Would he even be aware of himself if and when it occurred?

So preoccupied was he in this internal conundrum that he failed to notice a limousine pulling to an abrupt halt beside him as he roamed through Times Square. The door opened and two gloved hands reached out, startling him as they wrenched him inside. His back met the floor of the limo as the door shut, the vehicle moving again, and - oh, it began - _Audrey_ crawled over to straddle him.

"Take off your pants!"

Her words would have provoked his new sensibilities further if it weren't for the warmongering "DROP AND GIVE ME TWENTY!" manner of which they were yelled.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Pants! Off! Now!" Her hands were already venturing to make quick work of them. God help him.

"Audrey!" He made an indignant sound when he tore her hands away. "What are you doing?"

"You have to help me!"

His incredulous regard grew more pronounced. "By undressing?"

"I need you to be my escort!" He barely registered her answer as she teetered off of him. There was friction. It was pleasantly distracting. "I have a suit you can wear!"

He recovered quickly and settled onto the nearest seat, mustering all the poise he possessed. "How did you know you would find me here?"

"I didn't," she admitted, preening before her reflection in the tinted windows. He curiously watched as she licked her palm to groom her hair. Like a cat. He suspected Rembrandt was an influence. "My plan was actually to pull the Naked Cowboy in here, hence the extra clothes, but then I saw you..." her voice wandered as she contemplated his appearance, deciding upon something, "Actually! You can wear that, just lose the trench coat."

He contended her expectant gaze with his own while he internally searched their conversation so far for the moment he had even agreed to this. If it weren't for her innocent face, he could have dubbed this as a hostage situation. After a helpless glance around, he yielded. It felt strange to have her watch him as he removed his trench coat, so he filled the silence.

"Where are we going?"

"My friend, Marcus - you know Marcus, he was the black Santa Claus back at Toys 'R Us?"

He immediately regretted abandoning her there. Anyone who could charm Castiel could charm the pants off anyone else, which is what he feared (especially literally). He nodded, silently hating himself.

"His sister May is hosting a Christmas reception at their parent's mansion," she revealed. Her expression turned reflective. "Mr. and Mrs. O'Nayse are very kind to allow us to use it."

He tilted his head as though he misheard her. "Her name is May O'Nayse?"

She shook with stifled laughter. "Yes, just like the condiment, Castiel, very good."

"Why do you require an escort?" he asked. His eyes narrowed towards the suit that hung in the corner. "Why do you require a _male_ escort?"

She was suddenly sheepish. "Ha... this is where it gets awkward. My ex-boyfriend is gonna be there."

He became as still as a statue, and if it was obvious, she wasn't acknowledging it. It was a wonder that he had never thought about this until now. Of course Audrey would have a string (hopefully short, but he presumed otherwise) of former lovers. Who would have been... touching her. And likewise. His mouth twisted resentfully as though he detected a growing ulcer.

"I see," he replied tightly.

"That's not the awkward part. I need you to be my pretend boyfriend!"

He digested this for a moment. An emotion crept up on him, coupled with a red flag that warned him in advance not to manifest it. It was... delight! His mouth was now twisting to restrain a smile.

"I fail to see how that's related to your former partner being in attendance," he remarked in his best display of unconcern.

She gauged him very soberly for an extended moment. "Remember that conversation we had about a week ago? About Heaven and Hell?"

He nodded. "I do."

There was a pause; he sensed something upset her. "When I said "some people", I meant Oliver, my ex. _Just_ Oliver."

It was his turn to pause, recalling that entire conversation. "You had that conversation with him and he judged you based on your conjectures?"

"Yeah! The minute I mentioned Roman Polanski and Charles Manson, he looked at me as though - as though _I'd_ committed the crimes! I just wanted was a bit of objectivity in a discussion. I wasn't taking sides!" She sighed, simmering her senses. "He was so damn blinkered."

He nodded absently. "That's how most Athiests are."

Her eyes were on him immediately. "Excuse me?"

He frowned at her bridled tone. "You can't take offense to that because you're not an Athiest, not anymore."

Her posture straightened defensively. "I'm... five shades Athiest, five shades Agnostic now, I admit, but I'm still entitled to take offense to that, to which I repeat: _"Excuse me?"_"

He regarded her almost pityingly, and he knew how patronizing it would appear. "Do you really think an Athiest would put as much effort into proving there to be a God, as much as they are inclined to prove that there isn't?" he challenged.

"There might be," she huffed, aloofly examining her cuticles. Castiel gave this move a mildly amused look as she had been wearing gloves.

"Hence why I said _most_ Athiests," he pointed out, his gaze lingering on her fingers. "I doubt every one of these Athiests has even read the Bible." He drifted out of focus and into reverie. "Even though the truth of it all is generally lost in translation."

This hooked her attention. "_What?_ Are you saying you don't even believe the Bible?" She shook her head with a start. "Sorry, I never asked you - what religion do you follow? Christianity, right?"

"To some extent," he said vaguely, looking her in the eye.

Her confusion evidently swelled. "What does that mean? Uh, Judaism?"

"Also to some extent."

"What? How can you - Buddhism?"

"Same sentiments apply."

For the longest moment, she simply gaped at him. "What the _hell_ kind of religion do you follow?" Just when he thought he had been cornered for good, she laughed. "You're religiously promiscuous!"

He gave her a small smile, further camouflaging any traces of paranoia that may have betrayed him.

She sighed, reluctantly resuming the subject matter. "But uh, yeah, Oliver - he and I split up because of that."

"That conversation?"

"Oh, there were many more conversations like that," she scoffed, grimacing at the unfortunate memory. "A lot that _we've_," she gestured the two of them, "unthinkingly reenacted and barely survived."

He nodded in acknowledgment. "And I succeeded in inspiring a little faith in you." She gave him a sarcastically grateful expression. He frowned. "Why does that disappoint you?"

"You call it a little faith, I call it a whole lot of doubt," she said cynically, her eyes briefly abandoning focus. She shook her head, forcing them back on track. "Anyway, look, this is your story: your name is Castiel, uh..." Her brow furrowed harshly, "– what _is _your surname?"

"I don't have one." That response would faze a normal person. Thankfully, Audrey wasn't normal.

"Oh! Even better! It's like Madonna, or Prince! You're the Man Formerly Known As Castiel! And your job is..." She began to fiddle with her hair, feigning flippant ignorance. "What-what was it you did?" He addressed her transparency with a smile until her hopeful expression dropped. "_Fine_, what are you good at?"

He paused thoughtfully. "Investigating. Hunting. Instructing..." he trailed off, choosing to gauge her response at this.

She quirked an eyebrow at his rather mixed bag of talents before launching into her rambling in earnest. "Uh, okay, you're a... theologist. No, a professor! I'd date a professor. A professor of theology and... I dunno, biblical studies? from... NYU. And you are not thirty-eight, you are... thirty-two? No, you don't look like an eighties kid. Thirty-four! Yeah, you're thirty-four. And how we meet is exactly the same to how it is in reality, except it happened last year. We started dating on the fourth of July, and you proposed to me on my twenty-ninth birthday –"

His brow lifted. "I'm your fiance now?"

"Oh, relax. It's just Beyoncé with an F," she dismissed. Then, she leaned into his side of the limo and took a long sniff. "No no no, this won't do. You smell too much like a man."

"Is that a bad thing?" he asked, watching her rifle through her purse.

"Where have you been all day? No one in New York smells like that. We either smell like hot dogs or Chanel number five." At his blank expression, she waved her hand dismissively. "Never mind. I'm gonna spray you with Axe." She smirked, lifting the can as though it were a gun, "Don't worry, I won't jump on you and think you're made of chocolate."

"You already have jumped on me," he pointed out, his tone flat but his gaze smoldering right through the mist of the spray.

"True," she smiled, her eyes glimmering similarly as she tossed the can aside," and I don't think it serves as a deterrent to you."

They stared each other down, not with hostility, but with something else. Something that dared the other to act upon it, to externalize internal things...

"I want to ask you something," he said, the words abandoning him before they could be reviewed.

Likewise, her intent gaze didn't falter, even as her brow raised as a means to beckon him. However, when it finally dawned on him what he was about to ask, his did.

"I fear the subject is too intrusive," he brooded, gazing indiscriminately at the plush carpeting for guidance.

"You know I'm open about myself," she heartened softly. Their eyes touched, and although he still dreaded how his inquiry would be received, he submitted under her encouraging gaze.

"What did puberty feel like?" Something internal pushed him to be more specific. "To you." And again. "_Emotionally_."

She snorted. It then occurred to her that he was being serious, and her smile pulled downwards in a haste, contorting it into anything other than a smile.

"Will, um, answering this question help you sleep at night?" she asked humorously.

He was immediately apologetic. "If it is too invasive –"

"No, it's fine," she smiled, "I'm just wondering how such a thought transpired. So, um, why? Are we comparing or something?"

"N-yes. Yes. Yes, we'll compare our experiences." The nodded together, hers in agreement, his trying to convince himself that that was the plan all along.

"So, _emotionally_, huh?" Her eyes rolled upwards as she fell back into reminiscence, "I remember feeling... impulsive, experimental, spontaneous, free and unapologetic."

A flicker of amusement enlivened his eyes. "So you haven't changed."

She beamed in silent agreement. "But, I wouldn't say I'm experimental anymore. I know what's good and what's bad, what I like and what I don't –"

"Me too."

Did he just say that out loud? They blinked at each other, neither one of them expecting that. He couldn't help himself; he actually related to her in that degree. He knew what he wanted now.

"And," he resumed, scraping back his formality, "you couldn't control it?"

"Well see, the thing about adolescence is that you're not fully matured, judgment included. So when I thought I was in perfect control back then, I really wasn't," she said, half-smiling helplessly.

_Reckless_, he concluded. "And you indulged those impulses?"

She gave him an emphatic smile. He wasn't sure if that was supposed to be an expression of "yes" or "no". "If you don't, you'll lose your mind," she shrugged. "That's why adolescence can be distressing." The pained look resurfaced on his face; she had just validated Gabriel's metaphor. Just as he was about to fall into a deep haze, she held him in reality. "Hey! You're not telling me how _your_ adolescence went about!"

He shifted under the sudden spotlight. "There was..." he began, before even knowing how he intended to end, "... a constant surge of a carnal energy that inspired me to crave touch."

Her smirk emerged, unrestrained. "A constant surge of _what_ now? I've never heard that one before. Is that the puritan way of saying that you were aroused?"

She giggled. He stared up at her very eloquently. She stopped giggling. They stared at each other in silence... which made Castiel's motion of crossing one leg over the other painfully obvious.

* * *

I'm taking a break from writing, maybe for a month; I need to focus on polishing up my film school application. If I'm not admitted, oh _God_, I don't know what I'll do with myself. Though it does suck to have to put a wrench in creativity - one should never have to do that since motivation may not arise later; hell, a lot of the shit in this story emerges to mind at three in the morning, and when it does, I always have to write it down - but I digress, I need to do this. Sorry I didn't leave it on a more dramatic note, though I suppose that's a good thing where your patience is concerned, _*laughtertrack*_.

Some notable things you may want to stick around for in the future is NYU, Castiel being indirectly parodied on _Saturday Night Live _(think The Lonely Island and their digital shorts) and the Winchesters comin' to town. Romance will continue to progress at a teasing rate; he will learn that Audrey is very much a twenty-first century girl who, while she does not fall in love easily, still has womanly needs.

Read and review :)

BTW, ten points to whoever understands the significance of the chapter title.


	22. The Lady is a Tramp

It was safe to say that, at this point, Castiel had abandoned all divine cognition to oblivion. Where there were once echoes of celestial messages from above, the whisperings of prophets, and missions issued by a higher power, there was now the likeness of Audrey as she was at present, sitting across from him as the staccato of light and color from Times Square danced across her.

For ten minutes, he stared - not even trying to hide it. At some point, a faint smile graced his lips, as if he were privately enjoying a joke meant only for himself. The first five minutes of this was responded with a cordial smile, but around the five minute mark, her expression began to dwindle into one that questioned the nature of his regard. She was pulled into deeper perplexity when this change in her expression only stirred him, igniting a mysterious gleam in his eye. Rightfully so; that gleam was not to be trusted, and had he been completely mindful of himself, he would agree.

The ten minute mark saw the angel not just staring at her, but parts of her. What little her Lipsy harlequin dress covered invited his attention. And why the lower limbs of the female body were suddenly appealing was beyond him. The same could be said about the humble curve of her hips, the modest indent of her waist, and continuing in that raunchy upwards ocular expedition, well, _hello._

The aesthetic dichotomy between her and the Winchesters was astounding. While the brothers looked like beautifully carved stone statues breathed to life, she looked so... soft. He felt compelled to reach out and touch her, to properly appreciate what God had forged for her. It would be a sin to let those gentle contours of her body go unexplored, unacknowledged. And he wasn't fond of sins.

For three minutes, she actually began to bask in this manner of scrutiny, and then for two minutes she didn't. It was dead on the stroke of fifteen minutes when she cleared her throat theatrically.

"Why are you staring at me?"

"You are pleasing to look at," he replied truthfully.

Seemingly wavering between two different responses, she eventually settled with a "Thank you".

The quiet reservation in her tone did not escape him. He contemplated her and his question before asking. "Why does it bother people when I stare?"

She appeared briefly unsure of how to attend to that question. "It's not just you," she began ambiguously, "it's rude for anyone to stare at anyone. Is that not a universal, unwritten fact?"

"Why?"

This seemed to nudge her further down the rabbit hole of confusion. "It's, er, um, intrusive?" When it appeared that she'd pulled him down the same line of muddled thinking, she struggled for words. "Well, uh, see... well, wellwellwell they, they say the eyes are the windows into the soul –"

And of course, he took that literally. "They're not."

Her face deadpanned momentarily when words suddenly dawned on her. "Okay, how about this? Staring is a non-verbal aspect of communication that, uh, indicates interest or curiosity."

He blinked owlishly. "I still fail to see the fault."

"Yeah, well," she mussed her hair absently, unconfident with her own conclusions but trailing them anyway, "I guess, by failing to follow your stare with words that convey said interest or curiosity, by default, makes the act of staring creepy, and impertinent." She paused, not for his interest but to relish the logic she'd created out of relatively nothing. "Because it's feels personal," she resumed, pride evident in her tone, "it feels intrusive; you display an interest, but you keep it to yourself!"

After nodding in comprehension, he reasoned, "Staring may be differently intentioned. What if I were to stare in anger? In recognition? In desire?"

Her eyes seemed to light up and smolder all at once, but whatever they relayed, she did not verbalize. "The star_ee_ does not know that until the star_er_ conveys that verbally," she replied, the glint still teasing in her eyes, "or, in special cases, _physically_."

Ordinarily, that glint would have him harboring suspicions and elevating caution (despite the fact that he was the owner of it just minutes ago), but he raised his chin and drew in a similar gaze to duel.

"In special cases?" he echoed. "Explain it to me."

The gaze they were indulging did not coordinate their studious conversation; their eyes communicated something completely different, something perhaps too saucy to even warrant dignified subtitles. Had Ranjit the chauffeur been watching them, he would have miserably commenced preparing a strategy in advance for getting stains out of the back seat by the end of his shift.

"In anger, you might punch. In recognition, you might wave. In desire, you might kiss. Your stare may be defined and justifiable to you, but unless you clarify it to them, then the staring is just creepy."

"I've justified the reason for my staring. Am I entitled to continue?"

Why, this was dialogue that could make Selena Kitt herself blush.

"Your answer lead us into a special case. Your staring is leering, which, while justified –" Folding her arms over her chest, her side of the heated gaze turned ceremonious, "– still doesn't make it okay."

"That makes no sense," he said with an unwittingly supercilious air, his share of the gaze also dropping. "You're beautiful. Staring should be received as flattery."

"Perhaps," she conceded, acknowledging his remark with a smile, "but I'm beyond my exterior, Castiel."

"I know that."

"I know you know that," she assured, her eyes gentle. "That's why I'm not mad at you for leering. But do other men know that? If and when they leer at me? Or any random girl? That's why it's generally not okay to leer, at all."

It wasn't until she glanced aside that he realized how long they had been holding eye contact; it was like a magnet being detached from another. "I'm not mad at you because you don't see me like that," she continued, and he observed her, vaguely curious about the purpose of the buttons she was now pressing. "The first time we met, you never looked at me like that." A smile was briefly turned to him before her attention resumed on... whatever it was she was doing. "I'm not mad, but I _am_ curious as to why you're starting now."

"It's an interesting situation," he mused, watching as she opened a discreet door and drew out a glass of champagne. A staple in any limousine ride.

"A special case?"

The implication in her tone was evident, but her eyes presented no prominence to it. Knowing it was there anyway, he smiled to one side.

"Very." Pause. And then, more solemnly, "I apologize for staring at you."

"That's okay! Just don't let it happen again." She then added, the instant before her lips pressed the rim of the glass, her voice darkened with suggestion, "_Unless you intend on following up on it._"

Whatever words in response had offered themselves to his tongue went unspoken when the limo lurched to a heavy stop, nearly resulting in champagne spillage, and she lit up like the Fourth of July.

"We're _here!_"

* * *

The "I Really _Do_ Have Better Things To Do With My Time" expression that a dark haired man wore was contradicted by his current move of picking up a glass from the ledge on the wall and, after being momentarily annoyed to find it empty, settled for the ice cubes instead. His dirty blond wingman (and it is allowable for "dirty" and "blond" to serve as two separate adjectives in this case) began poking his arm like a child on Christmas morning.

"Ted! Ted! Hey, look at me," he said, leveling two fingers to and from their faces, "Look at me, over here, Ted, look at me, up here, look at me, look at me, look at me –"

"WHAT?" he hollered, when he finally did.

"Check out that red head over there," he pointed, eagerly snapping his fingers for emphasis. "Do you know what she is, Ted? She's a _nine_. And because 'tis the season to _get jolly_, I'm willing to let you be the six to her nine."

"Was that a sex joke or do you seriously rate me as a six? And besides, you're only letting me have her because your plan for the night is to have a threesome with a black girl and a half-black girl."

The blond fixed him with a decidedly innocent look. "I just wanna put myself forward as the white in their incomplete skin color spectrum, and believe me," he began to preen at his own words, "if my offer is welcomed with open "arms", they'll be seeing a lot of it. What up!"

His hand shot to the air, hoping to be met by Ted's, but he merely blinked at him with a lazy smile. "Barney, that's disgusting."

"I'm sorry," he mumbled sheepishly, withdrawing his hand and burying it in his pocket. "I know how sensitive you and your vagina are."

Ted allowed that jibe to slide right off him when he saw another person appear alongside the red head. "Doesn't matter anyway, she's here with some guy."

Immediately, Barney's head whipped back in her direction. Then he frowned. "_Him?_ He looks like someone took a leak in his cornflakes this morning and suspects everyone in the room. What does he have that I don't?"

"A date."

It was on these rare occasions that Ted did not mind being on the receiving end of those dirty looks. He rejoiced the moment by dabbing a finger at his tongue, touching the air and hissing.

Curbing a laugh, he then turned to observe the man again. "Well look, he's got that enigmatic thing about him, girls love that." At Barney's quizzical glance, he elaborated, "Like he would be all reserved and proper around people, but if she ever found herself in a dark corner with him..." he trailed off into a sigh, as though his point spoke for himself.

"Awww, Ted," Barney clapped a hand on his shoulder fondly, "don't worry, you'll meet a guy like that some day."

And with that, Barney reclaimed his throne of being the chief recipient of such scowls, and then, as one, they both turned to regard the red head and the man once more. The girl was standing before him, practically bouncing at her feet with excitement, while he contemplated her animation with mingling interest. She took his hand and guided him in a direction that would have them both out of Ted and Barney's view, but before he allowed her to whisk him away, his eyes turned over to the two men watching him. Both men jumped as their gazes all seemed to interlock at once; it was as though this man had been furtively listening to them the entire time somehow. His lips quirked into what could only be described as a complacent smirk before disappearing away with her.

They were dumbstruck for thirty solid seconds before they began to relax.

"I think I just soiled myself my briefs," Ted squeaked in a tiny voice.

Barney nodded vehemently, and before downing the rest of his scotch, he said, "Had I been wearing any, I would concur."

* * *

To Castiel, everyone was a colored person. He did not racially discriminate; he saw beauty in every living being. But aside from the occasional one or two exceptions, every single person in attendance was black. Not that it was a problem, but he had to admit he felt a little self-conscious of the skin he wore – he was like Bridget Jones arriving at a party in her bunny costume, and then realizing that no one had told her the "costume" aspect of it had been dropped. That was the first thing he noticed.

The second thing he noticed was the party itself. Set in a Gothic-Tudor estate, much like the Playboy mansion, it was youthful but classy, and tremendously glamorous. Men wore designer suits without ties (save for himself and the dirty blond from earlier), women dressed provocatively yet still boasted a tone of elegance, and all wore the same pretentious mien of "I'm above facial expressions" on their features. _Us Magazine_ says Castiel wore it best.

An effective combination of his naturally imposing manner of sweeping into rooms, Audrey's quirky fashion sense, and their equally outstanding whiteness had them maneuvering through the heavy horde of guests with little effort. They turned heads; it was probably the closest to the human concept of fame that he would ever get. Absent were only his and her Ray Bans and the flashing lights.

It was only when they ceased their little odyssey through the sea of the highly bred that he realized that _they_ weren't turning heads, but rather, _she_ was. He took the moment to "contemplate" her; 5'5" in her designer do-me pumps (she wouldn't be caught dead shopping in Sears!) and that vibrant harlequin dress and ... the only thing spoiling what could have been a stunning paparazzi shot was the look of fierce determination on her face as she raked the room with her kohl-rimmed eyes.

Another metaphorical being joined the human male on his shoulder. It was called the green eyed monster.

"Are you looking for something? Or _someone?_" he asked. To be more specific, he grumbled darkly. The allegation was not lost on her, and he hadn't expected it to.

However, he was not prepared for how she phrased her reply.

"Quit buggin', C-Unit; just 'cause I got my hair did and I'm flashin' this ice and errthang, not to mention workin' this dress, don't mean I'm all up in this crib to holla at my former boy!"

The mental fog she drove him into detained the rate of which he could register her words. Once they, more or less, dawned with some level of clarity, he revived from his stunned silence.

"I understand the words you're saying," he said slowly, as though treating her with a special caution, "but not the context they're in."

"I'm being ghetto!" Her grin faltered under his bafflement. "Or... vaguely racist." A sheepish grin emerged for no longer than a second before she resumed her inspection of the room in earnest.

There was no doubt in his mind that she was trying to find her ex-boyfriend. _Oliver_, he remembered with a grimace. "Oliver and Audrey" – he abominated how melodic it sounded. Already was Oliver his object of envy for two reasons: one, he "had" Audrey in what was probably every which way; and two, even now, she was exerting _so_ much effort for him. To some degree, it made him think less of her, but for the most part, as he was still without all details regarding their erstwhile relationship, he gave her the benefit of the doubt. Nevertheless, her behavior warranted a piece of his mind.

"You invest all this effort into your appearance and for the fictional story you've built around me to impress a memento from your past?"

"Not that it makes it any better, but it's not to impress, it's to spite," she distractedly replied, more immersed with scanning the crowd around them.

"That is ludicrous," he muttered under his breath, mirroring the same gesture, but more gazing indiscriminately rather than searching as she was. He envied Oliver, but he would never act in spite.

Her eyes snapped back to him, wide and hopeful. "Ludacris? Where?"

A disparaging frown was aimed her way. "Audrey, I'm not having any part in this."

The hope in her eyes was replaced with dismay. "What? Why? Don't be playin' that ish, brother C!"

"I don't wish to be involved in this act of malice," he said, his eyes resolved yet sympathetic.

"Why not?" she whined. Then, after a thought visibly struck to her, she coated her tone with good-natured mockery and added, "Is it a _sin?"_

"In fact, it is," he responded tersely, like a child being patronized. "Romans, 12:19; dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto –"

"I was being ironic," she interjected, waving him off. He bridled slightly at her dismissal, but was immediately forgiving when she afflicted him with those wide, hopeful eyes again. "Please, _please_ – just, just stand next to me!" she implored. "You don't even have to say anything! You might even give off this pretentious vibe, which would actually be even better!"

Damned oppressive eyes of a raccoon!

"Very well," he relented, meanwhile casting a purposeful glance to the side of the room he, for some reason, decided was to represent the exit. "However, this is only because I'm here to protect you."

"From what?"

Straightening his spine, he replied, "Unwanted advances." He deliberately did not specify whether it was for her sake or his.

"What makes you think I'm gonna get macked on?" she asked, to which he answered with a demonstrative downwards glance at her dress. He meant to embellish his point with words, but the words died at the sight of her again. She was just a big red "DO NOT TOUCH" button and he really, _really_ felt like making bad decisions tonight.

At his glance, she laughed dismissively. "So what if it's a reveal of some skin? It's not a reveal of a sexual opportunity."

"Some men may misconstrue that," he countered.

Curious, she tilted her head in a flirty motion. "Would you?"

"Yes. _No_," he stumbled, glowering at himself. She smirked all too knowingly, pleased to have thrown him off within his show of solemnity. Stubborn, he narrowed his eyes. "Let's just get this did. _Done._"

He assailed a withering stare upon her, silently cursing her for the effect she had over him, and thankfully, she exempted him from any gloating by issuing a warm smile instead. Together, they renewed their walk, but after a minute or two, it was under her questioning observation that his pace began to slow.

"Audrey, I imagine you intend to follow your non-verbal expression of interest and/or curiosity with words, unless you wish to be seen as a hypocrite," he deadpanned.

"You're walking so stiffly."

"Is that a problem?" he asked, not petulantly but genuinely inquisitive.

Regarding this as sarcasm, she cast him a flat look. "Visually, _yes_. You need to be more laid-back. Here..."

Before he could demur, or even comprehend what she expected of him exactly, she took one hand and planted it into the pocket of his pants. With his other hand, she mulled over for a while, before moving to stand right beside him as they originally were and then gave him the lovely surprise of placing his hand _beyond_ the lower part of her back. He shot her a shocked glance, the kind one would usually make if _they_ had been on the receiving end (er, for the lack of a better phrase); nonetheless, his hand did not recoil.

No doubt did his glance speak volumes for him, and certainly more eloquently than he would have been had he actually spoken, as she responded with a flummoxed, "What?"

His mouth worked in vain, striving to form an objection (albeit mendacious) to her move, but the words – Lord, even the _letters_ were not manifesting in his head. Ever the gentleman, he migrated his hand northward to take purchase on the small of her back, and then delivered her an emphatic look. _There_, he seemed to convey. _That_ was decorous.

Astonished, she exclaimed, "I give you the leeway to grab my ass and you shy from it? Didn't you say you wanted to protect me from unwanted advances? Aren't you gonna mark your territory?"

The challenge in her words ignited something in him he didn't know was incendiary - let alone present - provoking his hand to behave on its own accord and grab her the way she wanted. She squeaked in surprise at the sudden impact of his hand, which had her stumbling forward a little, before beaming up at him proudly.

"That's more like it!"

* * *

I passed the application round for my film school. Now my interview is on the twenty-third of September, so until then, I'll be dividing my time with this story and hyperventilating into a paper bag like a woman in labor.

Read and review! :D


	23. You're Doing Wrong

The blessing of a wide, perhaps _infinite_ vocabulary in every language ever existed was different to having working knowledge of words. For example, one may be familiar with the verb "run", but they are not acquainted with the _act_ of doing so until they get up and hightail it. It all resounded their discussion about experience and knowledge.

This whole concept was an interesting thing when it came to Castiel. Well. Interesting for observers, compromising for him. Presently, however, this concept coupled with his recent supposed development of pubescent qualities (which, considering the situation, merited a dropping of that "supposed") had him unmindful of the new words he was becoming experienced with. His qualities were still in its infancy, and that's when they hit the hardest. They had him doing things without conscious thought and inhibition. He was "running" for the first time, and didn't even realize it.

Metaphors aside, he was unconsciously flirting and, as above told, was in a position where he could compromise himself, _and,_ with his hand where it was, such an event could easily, _easily _befall.

Luckily for him, Audrey was also blissfully uninhibited. Her temperament was very much like a teenager, while her judgment was suitably matured. That happy-go-lucky temperament had her indifferent to the location of his hand - _mainly because she put it there_. However, it was that matured judgment that had her discreetly side-eying him in regards to the way he was currently "holding" her.

It started with the initial, overly-ambitious grab, which startled the both them. His surprise soon subsided as he recalled the limousine ride, when he had explored her body, only by sight. And now, he was doing it literally. Though, he wasn't _exploring_ per se, but rather he had figuratively "set up camp". As they wove through the highly bred mass together, with her engrossed in her epic quest for Oliver, the angel decided to embark upon a little adventure of his own. He saw no harm in it. Mainly because all risks had been blurred into obscurity.

What began as a firm, possessive hold of her took a lewd downwards spiral as his nails seemed to hitch into the fabric and he languidly dragged his fingers inwards. Facing ahead rendered him unable to see it happening, but he could imagine the hem of that dress slowly riding upwards —

"Hey!"

Glowering at him, she reached behind herself and smacked his hand, but did not detach it, and modestly tugged down the back of her dress. He merely responded with a look of innocent bemusement.

Ensuing was the current situation in which they were forced to sever their attachment, when a trio of overexcited guests tore between them after spotting the arrival of their equally overexcited friends. Audrey stopped to amusedly observe them and their bouncing ball of urban hollering ("YEAH BOYEEEE!") while Castiel - who achieved the following without second thought, as though it had become his sole duty the moment they were forced to part - sidled forward with sensuous grace, snaked a hand around her to reclaim its earlier anchorage, and hauled her flush against him.

That certainly ripped her attention away from the screaming guests, eliciting a high-pitched "Oh!" of delightful surprise from her also. He was beginning to find surprising her oddly indulging.

"Um –" Not knowing where else to put them, she laid her gloved hands on his arms, "– we're not gonna find him if we just stand idle."

"I know."

She frowned and smiled, seemingly disapproving and approving of his behavior at the same time. There was no struggle against his one-armed embrace, but neither was he the fixture of her attention, as proven by the way she maneuvered about in his arms, trying to inspect the perimeter. Just when he was about to remove himself from her, she stopped dead, before doing just that herself.

"I just saw him!" she hissed frantically, towing him behind a cluster of people.

He inclined to one side and extended his grace, working to detect the presence of Oliver something-or-other. It magnetized straight to a figure across the room, and he was immediately unsurprised that she fell for such a man. Non-threatening, boy-next-door good looks - the kind normally seen on the formulaic love interests of female primetime protagonists - black hair mussed into a charming disarray, and, as he stood alone nursing a colorless beverage, somehow achieved in airing the alluring dignity of a "lone wolf", as opposed to the pitiful stigma of being the "loner".

"Okay. I can do this. Get it together, you girl scout." As Castiel turned to the sound of her belligerent self pep talk, wide eyes flicked up to him. "Do you remember your story?"

"No."

"Good. Let's go."

As they crossed the room, a foreign line of thinking stole its untimely way into the foreground of his mind. This man he was walking towards had been involved with Audrey. Straightaway, his fastidious mind could not refrain from taking the loose term of being "involved" and measuring its implications. The one that stood out the most was the comprehensive "taking the traditional five senses and regarding them as deeds to do to/with/for her".

Luckily for Castiel, he literally had the composure of an angel, otherwise he would have appeared before the man with a sneer as relentless as that very implication sitting in his mind.

He waited until Oliver's faraway stare fixed onto him before speaking; "Hello."

Briefly confused by a greeting of obvious reluctance, he smiled tentatively. "Hiya?"

Even silence was a reluctant participant of this exchange. Castiel turned to prompt Audrey to fill it, who he assumed was at an uncharacteristic but justified loss for words. Hard to do so when, as it turned out, she had been absent from his side the entire time. Twisting around, he tried to spot her, unknowingly mirroring the way in which the Winchesters would do when he vanished into thin air.

"Um, I'm Oliver Stagl," he heard him say accommodatingly, as though he was trying to conduct him through the already waning, mutually undesired conversation.

Still peering around, he responded, "I know who you are."

Oliver flinched, struck by bewilderment. Castiel noted the silence and turned back to him. "Audrey has informed me of you," he elaborated.

"Oh," he sounded surprised and wistful at the same time, his expression reading likewise. "Huh." Pause. "How, how is she? Is she here?"

He began scrambling for the pieces of his story. "I'm a professor."

"What?"

"I don't have a surname."

"Uh –"

"I'm engaged."

"... that's nice?"

"To Audrey."

"_Oh._"

Another random snippet of fiction was just about to haphazardly tumble out of his mouth when, upon the look of reminiscence on Oliver's face, he decided that that was a fitting detail to close on. After granting him a half-courteous, half-begrudging smile (knowing he wouldn't perceive the latter half) he walked off, leaving him alone looking vaguely constipated in the wake of this new revelation.

It didn't take long for him to feel out her presence. She was in the neighboring room, where there were dozens of round dining tables, all in immaculate alignment. He took five steps to the left. Three steps forward. Another two to the right until he stood just by a table. In a very studied manner, he descended into a seat, and when he was confident no one was looking, he hoisted up the tablecloth.

When she saw him, she started so violently she hit her head. "How did you know I was here?" she asked, wincing. His fingers twitched to relieve her of the pain almost imperceptibly, but kept his hands to himself.

"Your protruding shoes left little to the imagination," he replied. Though it was true, it wasn't how he found her of course. As she wrinkled her nose at her blunder and drew her legs further inward, he asked, "Why are you under the table?"

"This is what I do at parties. What, you've never done it before?"

"If I ask again, will you tell me the truth?"

The feeble smile on her face split into an expression of dread. "I'm not ready to talk to him!" she cried, tears welling up in her eyes. "I can't do this, Cas! I can't, it's too painful!"

Trepidation was such an ill-fitting expression on her face, and wearing it made her look unrecognizable. He disapproved of it immediately.

"We can leave if you wish, Audrey," he said softly. A smile quivered its way onto her face, and he couldn't help but do the same for her sake. The private moment was interrupted by his grace alerting him to a presence. Head whipping upwards, he spotted Oliver searching the room. "I suggest you hide. I believe he's looking for me."

"Why?"

"Just –" He would have rolled his eyes curtly, but instead he nudged her head back under the table and adjusted the tablecloth.

Despite the dozen or so other people in the room, Oliver's steps within were hesitant, as though uncertain of whether or not he was permitted here. Then, spotting Castiel, who, upon recognition, glanced away inconspicuously, he progressed forward with enterprising verve. A few feet shy of his table, he stopped when the angel convincingly pretended to notice him.

"Hi again," he said with an awkward smile. "We met earlier?"

"Of course."

Oliver's mouth moved, testing various sentence openers to no avail, before pulling up and settling on a chair. "I hope you don't mind me asking about her - about Audrey - but, uh, you know, how _is_ she doing, really?" Not even allowing him a beat to answer, he quickly threw in, "And, and I guess congratulations are in order for the engagement, hey?" he chuckled, brilliant smile at full wattage.

It was then that Castiel was reminded of her sinful abuse of acting ability. With the unmistakable intent for Oliver to see, she crawled out from under the table, and assumed her best mien of shock.

"Oh my goodness, Oliver?" she gasped melodramatically.

Both men wore matching expressions, though Oliver's sloped more towards "horrified" while Castiel's mingled closer to "morbidly excited". He saw the way Oliver looked to and from where she had emerged and where he was sitting, no doubt putting two and two together and gleaning the most obvious, most raunchy scenario. The angel's mouth opened to illuminate what was purely coincidental and totally innocent, but of course, this was all part of her plan.

"Damn, this sure is embarrassing!" she giggled, crawling onto the seat next to him and across from Oliver. Tongue between her teeth, she elbowed Castiel, who was grimacing at her with his eyes the same way Tyra Banks would smile with her eyes, or "smize". Grimize? "We gotta stop doing this in public!" she whispered loudly.

"I - you – were —" Both men uttered the same in unison.

It was to Castiel that she responded, "Incredible? Dexterous? Nothing's too good for my man." She patted him lightly on the leg, or rather, deliberately missing and making him jolt in his seat, as she smiled at her paralyzed, former beau. "Anyways. How are you, Oliver?"

* * *

They talked. A lot. One would presume that he would grow weary of the chatter between two exes, when really, their exchange fascinated him. Mainly because the substance of their dialogue was very alike to those that he and Audrey would have. Casually intellectual without stretching into pretentiousness, with a mingling note of flirtation in the air. However, he noticed with some satisfaction and curiosity, their element of flirtation seemed contrived; as though it was an old habit that, upon revival, seemed alien to them now.

What reigned his curiosity _over_ the content of their conversation was the manifestation of evidence that vouched for Audrey's recrimination of him. His exterior was non-threatening, but in reality he was patronizingly condescending, if possible; he would mask all condescension with a handsome smile. Castiel could tell when it stung her. He saw the slight wince in her eyes, the struggle in her smile, and the occasional moments where she was literally biting her tongue. Even with just a short time under the sun, the glass of milk that was their relationship had already begun to go sour.

As they spoke of pop culture, wars and the holiday season, he could only silently watch him tear her apart with gilded words, with that handsome smile serving as a shield. He wanted to help; he spotted all his contradictions and contextual errors as much as Oliver had for Audrey and therefore possessed the ideal ammunition, but at her periodic sidelong glance of defiance at him, he held his tongue. She wanted to fight her own battle.

"I have to say," Oliver began, in a tone that smirked despite the amiable smile he bore, leaning back on his chair with audacious pride, "I'm a little surprised." His gaze fell to Castiel in what was probably the first time in half an hour. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I never took Audrey as the marrying type."

"Oh, we're not getting married," she interjected, her hastiness betraying a trace of her repressed indignation. "We just like the whole package that comes with being engaged. The implication that we're being serious, the new relationship honorifics – y'know, fiancé instead of boyfriend and girlfriend..."

Oliver quirked an eyebrow snobbishly. "So... you're just gonna stay in engagement limbo forever?"

Her beam was poisonously sweet. "You make it sound like a bad thing."

"I think people who stay engaged forever have commitment problems."

"It's okay Oliver, you can say you're referring to me."

"I wasn't, 'cause I believe that your circumstances are maybe different."

"You didn't say that."

"I just did."

"It wasn't attached to your original statement."

"Nor was any evidence pointing to the assumption that I was referring to you."

"The evidence was in the absence."

"Yes, Audrey, the evidence was in the absence."

Castiel, who was massaging what had become a visible headache, turned his head up to them and donned his very sober expression of divine splendor.

"May I speak?" he asked, his gruff, professional tone clashing dramatically with theirs.

The intrusion of his voice took them both by surprise, as though they had forgotten his presence. Then, with perfect synchrony, pageant smiles were pasted on their faces, and he briefly wondered who initially inspired who with that sort of smile. They appeared as though they suspected his first words in the discussion would be modest and timid, and they wanted to be supportive. They were wrong. The angel was about to bring out the big guns, ready with ammunition. For both of them.

"Audrey and I are not engaged to be wed."

She instantly looked the opposite of supportive. "Cas!"

Not even presenting her a glance, he focused on Oliver. "Nor are we involved in such a way. She fabricated a story around me as material to spite you."

He barely responded to the way she was lividly smacking his arm. "How could you sell me out?"

The stunned Oliver began to grin like a Cheshire cat before regarding her with abstract sympathy. "Audrey, we brothers look out for one another."

As he spoke, Castiel finally shared a look with her. His was apologetic, yet purposeful, tacitly promising something valuable. The way her eyes narrowed told him that whatever he had prepared better be worth it. It being her dignity, of course.

"Not necessarily," he replied tightly, gaze shifting back to Oliver's as something calculative seeped into his eyes. When his grin dimmed, Castiel calmly laced his fingers together on the table. "I feel it's time that I call attention to some of the faults of your side of the exchange that I had noted in my silence."

"Wh-what?"

From the corners of his eyes, Audrey allowed a shadow of interest to surface. He recalled their earlier conversation about war.

"Oliver, to berate Audrey for estimating the death toll of the Cold War to the nearest ten and then to do the same with the 9/11 attacks is hypocritical. Moreover, it's unsurprising that Audrey, or anyone for that matter, has only a vague understanding of the Cold War."

At the offhand slight to her intelligence, she exclaimed, "Hey!" He ignored her.

"One must take into account the debatable involvement of the Korean and Vietnam wars in relation to the Cold War. Some argue these wars were not a part of it, but rather loose ends of the second World War. Therefore, it somewhat depends on whether or not you see eye to eye on that political ambiguity that, more or less, will determine your reliability of which you deem is high enough to criticize her convictions, and if my impressions are correct, the expression on your face informs me that this political ambiguity is unfamiliar to you, thus belying your immoderate perception of your own intelligence of which you have only been able to provide a mild demonstration of."

At a loss, Oliver's mouth opened and closed helplessly like a fish. Evidently, Castiel had been underestimated again.

"Having said that, to disparage her words not only makes you appear a fool, but to then subsequently do likewise and estimate the death toll of 9/11 to the nearest ten - which, if I may add, is not long past in comparison to the Cold War, which ranged between the years 1947 and 1991, which accordingly means that Audrey had to approximate the death toll of forty-four years, as opposed to the September 11 attacks, of which the death toll is determined by events occurring within eleven and a half hours - not trivializing the incident in any way, but only to highlight the unfairness of your criticism - makes you, as mentioned earlier, a hypocrite. And although I cannot necessarily correct you with your estimation, as figures of the death toll are always conflicting as provided by various sources, I must still point out that your erroneous sum of, and I quote, "in the ballpark of six thousand" is, as a matter of fact, the toll for those _injured_. And, the following is going to give every indication of being incredibly insensitive to those who've passed, but it has been reported that _only_ approximately two thousand, nine hundred and ninety-six people died."

Silence. Audrey, despite the annoyance still lingering behind her eyes, looked rather impressed. Oliver simply looked horrified, but fairly thankful that his onslaught was over.

But it wasn't.

"Furthermore –"

"Oh God," squeaked Oliver.

"– I very much dislike the tyrannical control you feel you need over word context. I understand grammatical perfectionism is a common characteristic for many people, but I resent the way in which you encounter these syntactical errors and rather than offering a correction, you use it against the person. For example, earlier, Audrey used the word "gifted"; you echoed the discourse in kind but with the word "expert"." Slightly, Castiel leaned forward, speaking furtively and ominously, "Oliver Stagl, I saw in your eyes, in that very moment, securing an opportunity to take her supposedly imprecise word choice, stretch the definition and put words in her mouth. You indicated that "gifted" came with the implication that - in following the factors of which you were discussing at the time - one possessed a quality they've always inherently possessed. You then proceeded to argue that the correct word choice would have been "expert", as it implies that said quality was earned. There is nothing flawed in these arguments, but why you see to argue them _after_ you've embellished your debate beyond recognition is something I cannot make sense of."

Leaning back to his original stance, Castiel allowed his unanticipated profusion of words to hang in the air, coercing them both into a deafening silence as they sat in the wealth of it. He looked to and from them, sensing both their thoughts turning a mile a minute, but also their unwillingness to be the first to speak. He decided he needed to give them a reason to speak.

"Forgive me if this is too personal," he began, and neither looked relieved to have the silence broken by him, "but considering how neither of you appear prepared to speak, I believe it wouldn't be too bold of me if I were to address the - to put it colloquially - elephant in the room." With a stare, he pinned Oliver into his seat. "Your relationship with Audrey, in regards to as far as I've heard about you from her." Oliver gulped, as Castiel tilted his head inquisitively. "Do you not believe that what I have just clarified about you was the detrimental factor of your relationship?" He glanced briefly at Audrey, who was looking particularly vulnerable with this new subject. "Do you not believe, that knowing how highly she holds her pride, that your incessant fault-finding, as well as the patent gratification you receive in said fault-finding, would upset her?"

Oliver looked at Audrey for refutation, but found the opposite. "I didn't... but..."

Castiel watched as they communicated silently with their eyes, something he assumed they had mastered long ago. After a minute or two, still without a conclusion, he spoke again.

"I've known Audrey for a very short time in contrast," he said carefully, "and either I have more tact or you never knew her at all." He directed an expressive gaze to Oliver for a moment, before leaving the significance up in the air and fixing his gaze to the table instead. "That is all I have say."

It was then they both knew that was the last they would hear of it. Oliver and Audrey were left in the wake of the damage left by the elephant in the room, while Castiel just sat, for once not suffering under the press of a burdensome silence. He did, however, steal an oblique glance at her when Oliver rose from his chair and brusquely marched off, leaving them to be afflicted with the final condescending impact of the dismissive snort he sounded.

She was doing an admirable job of clinging to her composure until she turned to him, slowly doing so as an illustration of the emotions that were currently ricocheting within her. A man would fear that look hugely, as men habitually found great difficulty in having to approximate just one emotion at a time. Castiel, having safely felt justified, felt nothing.

"Why did you do that?" she asked, her voice quiet but simmering with emotions.

"I've learned, from experience, not to strictly take sides, but to take action."

At this, a couple of emotions escaped her: anger and indignity. "By making us both look _stupid?"_

"You both deserved it," he said bluntly. Her appalled gape didn't faze him. "You're on even ground now, unlike before, where you were both floating in equal obscurity. Constructing an image around you within that obscurity does not make you any more grounded. Perhaps you'll fool him, but the real fool is yourself."

Her face soured, comprehending his logic with aversion, as she grumbled, "Okay, Gandhi." She took to her feet and he was in no hurry to follow.

"Where are you going?"

She snatched her clutch off the table as if it had insulted her mother. "I need air now that I'm not floating within the scary bubble of foolish obscurity!" His expression remained impassive at her blatant display of condescension as she gave an uppity toss of her hair before flouncing out of the room like a drama queen, with him unabashedly eying her lower body as she did so.

* * *

And we hit two hundred reviews! I'm so happy!

Read and review! (Seriously, a million favorites and I never hear anything from most of you guys *sadface*)


	24. Haters to the Left

As the final notes of a very suggestive song that most certainly was _not_ about a pony - despite the title - trailed off to bridge onto another track, Castiel, who had been wandering about on the second floor of the mansion, searching for a room that didn't accommodate a ménage à trois, pulled out his phone and dialed. And having grown weary of opening doors and serving as the personified equivalent to the dumping of cold water on copulating individuals (one of them being the dirty blond from before, whose earlier "offer" was indeed being "taken" with open "arms"), he conceded and descended the tinsel-festooned grand staircase, reuniting with the heart of the reception.

"Cas, what's up?" piped Dean's voice, his words and monotone indicating he was in his own class of a good mood at the moment.

"How is the case in Tulsa progressing?"

Oddly, words audibly failed him during the lull that followed. "...er, what?"

"Your case at present - it's based in Tulsa, correct?"

"Uh, yeah?"

His ambivalence veered the angel into confusion. "What's the problem?"

"Well now that you ask," Dean's tone recovered its familiar levity, "two things suggest themselves. One, you never ask how our cases are holding up unless you're in league with it one way or another, and two... I can hear Kanye West music in the background."

This detached him from their exchange and unceremoniously thrust him back into his reality; a reality of wine being consumed like a substitute for water, an all-embracing sense of self-preservation specifically for one's hair weave, the tendency to holler out hysterically at something well-received, Kanye West's "Gold Digger" being chorused with the enthusiasm of a gospel church choir and in response to any differences of opinion that may transpire within conversations, the phrase "Haters to the left" was a favorite among them.

As he swept this analyzing gaze around himself, he inwardly fumbled for a truthful yet deliberately cryptic explanation. Nothing sprung to mind.

"Um," spilled unhelpfully from his lips.

"Okay seriously - where the hell are you?" Incredulity and amusement clashed for prominence in Dean's tone.

"I'm ... also on a case." It was so ambiguous that it was almost a lie. Whatever Dean then issued as a reply registered only vaguely as his vessel's eardrums became arrested by another voice.

"HEYYY, WHITE BOY WHAT CHO NAME IS?"

In his ear, the Winchester chuckled, lilted inquisitively, as he turned to the voice. It appeared that he had wound up in the main hall of the mansion, the _heart_ of the heart of the party. Across from him, hogging the pews that framed the generous room, was a group of about ten or eleven people. They all seemed friendly, but at a magnitude that made them also seem rather intimidating.

"Castiel?" the angel answered, skeptical of their collective interest in him.

The group swapped glances in silence. Suddenly, they exploded with an ear-splitting medley of hooting and hollering, and basically had a religious experience with his name.

"Grandmaster Cas!" _Cheer_.

"C-Pain!" _Cheer_.

"Jay-C!" _Cheer_.

"C-yoncé!" _Cheer_.

"OutCas!" _Cheer_.

"C. Diddy!" _Cheer_.

"The Black Eyed C!" _Cheer_.

"Castiel!" Silence. Then, "WITH A DOLLAR SIGN WHERE THE 'S' BE!"

This inspired their most animated whoop of approval while the spotlighted angel remained costive. His presence of mind in the phone conversation rekindled when Dean spoke.

"Ooh-hey, that was a good one!" he remarked amusedly, then proceeded to sing, "Wake up in the morning feeling like Castiel, put my hand up on your shoulder, I'm gonna raise you from hell –"

"Dean –" he began, with the intent of following it with an honest explanation.

"Relax, Cas. Yeah, you probably _should_ be doing something better with your time, but anything involving you as the proverbial fish out of water, I think is funny. Just promise me you won't embarrass yourself by reading into the pasts of all them bitches n' hoes."

"_Dean_ –" he said again, with the same intent but opening with an admonishing tone.

"I'm kidding! Well, no, I'm not but – just let me know how it all goes down in the hood. Oh, and another thing –" There was pregnant pause, and he could picture Dean adopting a very stern demeanor for the words ahead, "– if you had one shot, or one opportunity, to seize everything you ever wanted - one moment - would you capture it or just let it slip?"

Despite efforts, and even regarding it beyond its literal sense, the angel failed to discern relevance in that, so he glowered. "What does this question pertain to?"

There was that recognizable note in Dean's chuckle, informing him another reference from his mental reservoir of popular culture had flown over his head. Was he never exhausted of these? Castiel certainly knew _he_ was exhausted of being on the receiving end and not once being able to catch it. Suspicion told him that this was done willfully as Dean's only means to lord something over an angel.

"Never mind, Miss Thang," he said, audibly smiling. The receiver clicked and Castiel was left hung out to dry in his reality, where his awaiting audience imposed him with a keen grin as one.

"Baby boy, get on over here and kick it with us!" shouted a woman with an insane afro, gesturing their group even though there evidently were no available seats.

"I can't," he declined gently, "I'm looking for someone."

"Oh, lookin' for yo baby girl?" asked a man with gold teeth and sunglasses. This puzzled Castiel, as not only was it nighttime, but they were indoors. New Yorkers were _the_ strangest breed of humans.

"I'm... looking for _a _girl."

A man - black Santa sans the costume, or Marcus O'Nayse as it turned out - heisted his attention by thumping a doting hand on his shoulder. "Aren't we all, brother? But you know, if you don't find that girl, you could always look to the man."

His gathered audience murmured with agreements._ "The man, baby, always the man."_

Although fairly certain about whom he was referring to, Castiel asked regardless; "Who are you referring to?"

"The Lord!" exclaimed Marcus, arms grandly outstretched in the crucifix position, holding that pose until he saw some level of comprehension in Castiel's eyes, to which he then gestured the ceiling in an equally grand fashion. "Our father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven."

_"Preach it honey, preach it."_

The rippling chord of a church organ sounded out of nowhere, followed by the hum of a nonexistent gospel choir, and Marcus then proceeded to deliver a spontaneous sermon. "There is man up there!"

_"Up there!"_ echoed his gathered audience like a church mass.

"Lookin' down upon us!"

_"Upon alla' us, y'all!"_

"Lookin' down and – and not _wailin'!_"

_"Never wailin'!"_

"No! The good Lord –"

_"Good Lord!"_

"The Almighty –"

_"Almighty, son!"_

"The man, _our_ Man Upstairs –"

_"It's the man, baby!"_

_"He upstairs!"_

"– he looks down upon us, from his seat up high –"

_"Way up high!"_

"– and he hates not those who refuse him as their personal savior –"

_"Nuh-uh, not the man!"_

"– instead, he _loves_, baby he _loves_. And if your girl," he directed to Castiel - who had been experiencing this all in what was undoubtedly an amazed silence - before addressing the group at large, "or your boy, or your brother –"

_"Your brother!"_

"– your sister –"

_"Your sister!"_

"– your father –"

_"Your father!"_

"– your mother –"

_"Your mother!"_

"– ain't layin' out the love to you, you know the man will surely pro-_vide!_"

_"The man will provide, honey!"_

"Brothers and sisters, can I get an ah-men?"

**_"Amen!"_**

At this point, Castiel was, probably for the first time, truly and genuinely, unreservedly smiling, as he avidly glanced between Marcus and his devoted congregation. Witnessing such a blatant, unashamed display of faith was rare, and after confronting so much ugly on this earth, the present feeling was wonderful.

"Mhm, yes yes y'all – let us not forget His love! I say love is all and everythang the Holy Ghost desires to bestow upon us!"

_"Just love, pure love, honey."_

"Do not _hide_ the love –"

_"Don't chu hide it!"_

"– instead, make a joyous noise unto the Lord! Give God the praise! Show him the love!"

This was followed accordingly with joyous hoots, hollers and admissions of divine love born of impulse. Marcus redirected his focus on Castiel, placing his hands on either shoulder to cage his attention.

"Brother. When the time comes - _and many times will,_" he said passionately, fleetingly shutting his eyes, "– will you show the love?"

The irony of the situation pulled the angel's smile to one side. "You have absolutely nothing to worry about."

Misunderstanding, he cocked his head. "I'm sorry, was that a yes?"

From where he stood held captive in his hold, Castiel cast a glance around, as though wondering if anyone else found this as amusing as he did. "... yes."

"I say _what?_"

"Yes."

"The Lord can't hear you, son!"

"He hears me better than most."

"Say yes, brother!" he ardently spurred as he gave him a little shake, clenching his eyes shut to boot. "Say it like you mean it!"

Eyes darting as he hesitated, he then yielded gladly. "_Yes!_"

Unfortunately, in his impulsive haste, the angel accidentally translated his words not into human English, but in his true voice, and much to fright of everyone within a one hundred foot radius, it rung rampant and shattered the glass throughout. Everybody dropped to the floor wincing and crying out in alarm while he stood transfixed in the midst of all this, not to mention the sharp wails of feedback quaking from the defused surround sound speakers. As his mind tolled with his equivalent of "Whoops!", his mouth twitched apologetically before hurrying out of the scene.

So within an hour and a half, he had effectively ruined Audrey's mood and the party itself. It was like a horrid natural talent. Now, he decided, would be the appropriate time to leave.

Occasionally having to work against the growing crowd migrating towards the scene of the spontaneous sonic boom, he explored the rooms for Audrey, but ultimately failed to feel her presence. When he turned his head heavenward, summoning her whereabouts - and, in the little moment between that and the universe's response, he hoped desperately that it would not inform him she was upstairs - the response he received pegged him in a solid confusion. Apparently, she was about fifty yards down the street, where all the cars were lined to park. What was she doing all the way there?

Immediately, there was a flutter of wings, and his shadow promptly stretched across her own.

Few things rattled him into speechlessness, even now, where the situation was nigh on achieving this. Instead, he made a new noise. A hybrid of a cough and an incoherent splutter, it translated with ironic intelligibility to his equivalent of the ever-popular phrase of human vernacular that was "WHAT THE FUCK?". Then, some words; resonant but livid, and not unlike the tone reserved only for evil.

"Audrey, what in Lucifer's name (_– because he never took the Lord's name in vain _–) do you think you're doing?"

She yelped with surprise before spinning round, her clutch on the brass fireplace poker froze mid-swing at the sight of him. She had been _smashing_ a _car_. And it didn't take a genius to fathom whose.

"What – where the frick did _you_ come from?"

"That's irrelevant!" he yelled. "What –" A threatening step forward, "– do you think –" And another two, "– you're _doing?"_

His tone visibly unsettled her, but she recovered, bold as the brass in her offending hands. "What I _think _I'm doing," she began, peskily poising it over one shoulder, "is balancing out the universe."

Balancing out the universe? The words were understandable, but her logic practically disoriented him into an aneurysm. What was occurring in his mind was alike to a sequence from Spongebob Squarepants, where the computers and filing cabinets representing the order of his mind were being smashed and set on fire. His thoughts turned inward and outward and sideways and slantways, working fruitlessly to find words to both address her reasoning and berate her actions, but he was _so_ far discombobulated in this mental pandemonium that both efforts became entangled in a loveless marriage of something so chaotically messy that the author could not fathom a fitting enough word for it.

Her peskiness stalled in the face of his evident internal restriction, and for a moment it looked as if she was considering poking him back to life with the brass stoker. After ten solid seconds of silence, he revived from his paralysis, startling her with his sudden movement.

"Have your mental faculties _completely_ forsaken you?"

All he got in response was a deliberately obtuse smile and a shrug to match. "You'd think by now the alarm would go off," she mused offhandedly.

His glare was severe and smoldering. How very foreign his male sensibilities seemed at present. Her attitude was really unbecoming, especially when she decided to return his glare with a smirk of her own charming brand of impudence, of which _wasn't_ so charming right now. Smirk fulfilled, she turned and raised the stoker once more.

His thoughts chimed in right away with his formal alternative to "Oh no you _don't!_".

In a flash, Castiel had thieved the towering end of it, twisted his arm around her so that she was caged by the stoker itself and the arm it was attached to. Both the unearthly speed of his move and the way he had forced her backwards into him drew a gasp from her, but he was too exasperated to derive any gratification from her reaction, or their intimate closeness.

"Audrey, enough of this behavior at once!" he growled into her ear. "Have I taught you nothing?" Although still in his arms, he could practically feel the eyes rolling in her head. Sensing her clutch on the stoker slacken, he took it from her as he thrust her away - not to hurt, but firmly enough to bruise her ego. "I'm taking you home."

"You're coming with me?"

"Yes - no - _stop it,_" he ordered, belatedly perceiving her suggestion and pointing to her with the stoker before tossing it into the gutter. "This is not the occasion to be fooling around."

The stoker oh-so _lightly_ brushed against the tire. The alarm began to blare wildly. Castiel's eyes closed, not believing his luck; it was just another straw where his composure was concerned. Her glow of smugness had never radiated so fiercely.

"Do tell me when the occasion to fool around arises." Her insufferable smugness was met with a minute silence. Something as arcane as she was tugged at the corner of his mind as he exacted a long, searching gaze upon her. Upon trailing that route of contemplation and failing to meet a conclusion, he reached forward and gripped her shoulders.

"Audrey Hathaway, why must you be so difficult sometimes? Why, _why?_" he demanded lowly, inflicting a shake on her shoulders for emphasis. Wisely, she chose not to convey her smugness further.

Lacking the wherewithal to properly chastise her at this moment, he shifted to let go of her, but encountered an unforeseen difficulty. A lingering trace of his crescendoing desire for her over the course of the night snuck under the wire of his self-possession, dissolving his scowl into a vacant expression, open and vulnerable to what may transpire if his hands remained on her. Her eyes lost their venom, softening and responding to whatever she began to see in his own. His head tilted as he regarded her, as though what he was seeing was entirely unfamiliar to him. His eyes traced hers, her lips, her hair, her frame beneath his hands, her legs, her —

The stoker resting in the gutter served as a striking reminder, ripping all desire away. Collecting himself and recovering his scowl, he let go of her. "Don't bother. We're leaving immediately."

"Our limo isn't due for another two hours," she muttered as she crossed her arms, frazzled.

For a second or two, he considered her words, his eyes momentarily flickering aside in thought. Then, fixing her with a harsh stare, intending her to bear the brunt of his tone, "_No, it isn't._"

There was a shrill screech of tires, startling and stealing her attention and when she turned to the road, lo and behold, there was their limousine.

"How did..." She turned to him, eyes gaping and questioning. "– but it's so early!" He did not accommodate her curiosity with an answer.

It began to snow very delicately, the icing on what had become a rather melancholy spectacle. There was Castiel, his gaze down at her no longer exasperated, but instead deflated, while she looked similarly, no longer finding enjoyment in complacency but rather reluctant guilt at having befouled his mood. When she shivered, having perceived the cold finally, he nodded curtly at their waiting vehicle. She kicked at her heels petulantly but obeyed, not before making a strangled sound of protest. As he disappeared with her inside, his hand briefly swept the air, wielding power for an undisclosed action, and as the vehicle pushed into movement, Oliver's car began to mend itself as the alarm died.

* * *

I can't take credit for Dean's "Ca$tiel" lyrics, lol; I found that on FaceBook. And just for the record, I hate Ke$ha. Also, I may take another short hiatus; my make-or-break interview is in six days so I might spend it practicing answers to a mirror. I say "may" because 70% of the next chapter is completed, soooo, we'll see.

By the way, on the 21st, "Empire State of Mind" is being covered on _Glee_. Yes, you best believe I'm a Gleek.

Read and review! :D


	25. Curiouser and Curiouser

Something niggled the back of his mind – a thought, a _suspicion_. It crawled beneath the figurative armed sentries stationed to identify any malevolent, profane thoughts on the approach and kill them on sight – thus preserving an ideally angelic disposition – and delivered to him this new suspicion.

The suspicion proposed that Audrey was perhaps chromosomally challenged in the cerebral realm of _tact_. Granted, it wasn't a particularly wise suspicion, but upon glancing at the very image of undeserving bravado sitting across from him – arms folded, leg crossed over the other, chin thrust into the air, pointedly avoiding the gaze of the retrench-coated black hole of divine exasperation across from her – he was tempted to remove the "perhaps" from that suspicion out of retaliation.

In human terms, he was currently inflicting her with the ever famous silent treatment. Though, the effectiveness of this conversational (well, lack thereof) tactic was questionable, considering how she had not said one word to him to let said tactic be known, much to his inherent annoyance. Tension of the not so unpleasant kind careened freely throughout the limousine, even reaching Ranjit with its disagreeable feeling and the suffocating silence that it was wed to, to which he non-verbally protested by elevating the central window that isolated their two sections.

Her gaze grazed his, possibly by accident, but it triggered him to end the silence.

"I refuse to talk to you," he said. She shrugged. His severe gaze deepened imperceptibly. "I am _gravely_ disappointed in you."

Her smile was maddeningly bland. "I thought you weren't talking to me."

"I'm not." Hastily, he looked away, internally grimacing at himself.

The shallow smile remained, lacing her words with an artificial sweetness. "Don't worry, I'll be home in no time and it'll make tolerating each other's presence a whole lot less challenging."

His gaze, now vaguely ominous, turned to her. That was it. She needed a good talking to. Her empty smile persevered stubbornly against his withering glance – a glance bearing an added touch of concerted power that was indiscernible to the eye, but evidenced by the abrupt sound of horrible bursting noises, reverberating wildly.

"What the hell was that?" she exclaimed, frantically clutching the leather upholstery as the limo rolled to an unusually bumpy stop.

The central window retreated, uniting the two separate sections of the limo as one again, revealing Ranjit. "I am sorry Miss Hathaway. Believe it or not, the tires have burst."

"_All_ of them?" She threw an incredulous look at Castiel, expecting him to appear the same, but he was not fazed the slightest. After all, he made this happen.

"Yes yes, this confuses me very much, Miss." Then, reluctantly, as though he did not know how to say this, "… and, and from what I can see, the tires of all the cabs in this area have also burst."

Immediately, her lips narrowed to release an bewildered exclamation of _"What?"_ but instead, deciding differently, with her clutch in hand and snatching her navy overcoat from the seat next to her, she began to clamber out the door; Castiel eventually followed with less desperation.

He found her scanning a disbelieving gaze at the scene around them; every cab indeed had blown tires, inspiring the anthem of Manhattan's roads to amplify with its melodies of traffic horns and lyrics of verbal abuse.

Eventually, for reasons unbeknown to her, her gaze stopped on him as she shrugged on her overcoat. Suspicion seeped into her eyes, but he knew that _she_ knew that there was absolutely no proof to backup what had crossed her mind.

"I suppose we must walk," he said, eyes shining potently. Recognizing her own expression of bravado on his face, her nose wrinkled peevishly.

After sharing some appreciative words with Ranjit and awarding him a whopping tip to shame all others, she took up his motion to walk by launching into it at once with an intensity that would make a personal trainer proud, not even acknowledging him as she passed. Before following, he angled his head up to the night sky with a face of tired determination. Bid me luck, he seemed to convey.

It was easy to catch up with her. Not so easy to fathom just how she achieved such a velocity in those loud heels.

"That was a very dishonorable thing to do. What possessed you?"

"Oh? So is a two hundred dollar tip a travesty to your standards?"

His gaze darkened as he directed it to her. "That is not what I am making reference to."

Her grin was impenitent. "Then I don't care!"

"I _abominate_ that attitude," he growled, moving to stand in front of her, thereby blocking her and caging her attention. Her gaze was decidedly mutinous, challenging whatever he had to dispense.

"In spite of what you may argue, _I did you a favor,_" he said the latter in an almost sinister whisper. "What was left of your relationship finally procured a balance tonight – procured by way of honesty and reason, not through false pretenses – a balance of which you overturned with your rash actions."

"I don't recall asking you to do your little interrupting cow maneuver," she hotly shot back before shifting to round him, but was impeded when his hand briskly caught her arm.

"The weak direction on your part craved my assistance."

Her mouth fell open in indignation. "Dammit Cas, you're concluding things to cater your own damn defense!" she yelled, wrenching her arm from his hold. "God! You're just as a bad as…" The danger of the word, the _name_, that was about to spill from her lips struck her, and she stopped herself at once. However, he was shrewd enough to have sensed it coming.

"Oliver?" he finished lowly, the ghost of a sneer shading his words disquietingly. For a minute, neither of their obstinate glares faltered as the words hung oppressively in the air.

Knowing he could hold that glare if he wanted to, she was the first to break. "So what would have been an appropriate act of retaliation, in your book?" she demanded, resuming their walk.

"There was no need for retaliation. The fire had been fought."

"Well you know why I think – or, or _thought_ it hadn't been?" she argued, frustration welling to the surface. "Because I wasn't the one to do it! It was none – of your – business!"

"I beg to differ," he grunted, stopping her further movement with just the sharpness of his gaze. "Who pulled me into that limousine? Who imposed me with this scheme and foisted a role upon me?"

"I —"

"Through your own formulation, it became plenty my business."

"But —"

"Argue to your heart's desire, Audrey; it still doesn't limit your acts of indiscretion any. Worthy reciprocation is simply not found at the end of a fireplace stoker."

"_But _—"

"This most certainly is not open for debate." His gaze bit into her. "What you did … was _inexcusable_."

"OKAY! I'm sorry!" she shouted, hopelessly wringing the clutch in her hands. "I don't… well, what do you want me to do? I do _not_ want to have to turn myself in…"

His eyes glazed over, recalling his act of mending the car as he murmured, "There's no need for that."

They loitered idly on the spot, both feeling lost having detected their argument's obscure conclusion and not knowing how to advance from it.

"I never had a chance, anyway," she sighed, renewing their walk again. At his questioning look, she added, "Winning his implicit argument, I mean. When I'm distressed, I can't think straight."

He nodded concurrently. "Yes. And for that reason, my assistance was called upon. It was only a matter of time before he'd reduced you to sheer incoherence." She condemned him with a sore expression, and his instantly twisted into one of reluctant remorse. "Please understand, I wanted only to help."

Just as reluctantly, her expression eased. Then, in a mumble, small, resistant and stiffened with an unspoken apology, "You really _did_ tear him a new asshole."

They shared a glance, the gentlest it had been in a few hours. He sensed his internal storm clouds receding and seeing the sparkle returning in her eyes, he imagined she was experiencing likewise.

"I still fail to understand why he took gratification from discouraging you."

A smile quirked to surface very briefly, as if to acknowledge a memory. "Mm, that's what I kept asking myself. It was _so_ great that he was into the whole verbal, intellectual side of a relationship, y'know? But what's the point if you only end up nitpicking the other person's words to follow accordingly with your own?"

As though he could relate, he nodded, though only managed to understand on an abstract level.

What was initially meant as a brief glance at him grew into a searching gaze. "You don't do that."

He looked at her very seriously. "I often have urge to."

The beginnings of a smile teased her lips. "As anyone should," she admitted. It was relieving to see that she was returning to her usual, lighthearted calm, but resumed with a more despondent air, "but he should have had more civility than that. Especially as my boyfriend."

He nodded understandingly, but saw no need for any further words. She must have been thinking similarly, as she surprised him with a punch on the arm.

Out came his trademark confused expression as he glanced at his arm, and then at her. "For what purpose was that?"

"That was to your entire gender!"

He read her words carefully. "Am I an exception?"

This seemed to catch her off guard. An idea forming, her demeanor grew familiarly mischievous. "Oh, I wouldn't use the word "exception" for you, Cas. More like…" Despite clear effort to do otherwise, a smile grew on one side, "… _freak._"

The return of her usual desire to bait him was oddly reassuring and ordinarily, he would not react to a direct insult, nor even bristle. This time, and he supposed these moments had always been around but never appealed to him until now, he saw the opportunity to compete.

"It would explain how well we communicate," he observed.

"Hey!"

Playfully feigning outrage, she moved to smack him with the clutch. He caught her hand with a brisk dexterity that took her by surprise. It provoked her to act similarly with her other hand, but his own other also acted correspondingly and caught her again. She tried to reclaim her hands but his hold was firm. Upon glancing at the way he held her wrists captive, an expression bloomed on his face not unlike a cat eying a ball of yarn.

There was something abnormally… compelling about being in control of her - the notion that he could tame that wild spontaneity in this alien-like human, and subdue her to liquid. He contemplated exploring that oddity; an oddity that, considering her patent history of making impulsive decisions, could benefit the both of them.

Against his better judgment, and with eyes fixed on her with new ambition, he leaned in to capture her lips. Or rather, he tried - his lips had barely brushed hers when she pretended to slip over in order to reel away from him. She _pretended._

"Whoa! Hey! Nearly slipped over there!" she chuckled unconvincingly.

Tilting his head, his eyes gripped her with a withering sort of bemusement. "Why are you affecting this pretense that you are not interested in me?"

She gaped at him. Then, a laugh sputtered out of her in disbelief before she smiled prissily. "Presumptuousness, thy name is Castiel."

He kept his gaze on her as she resumed her laughter, trying to wring the truth from her just by looking at her.

"Am I wrong?" he asked, taking a step not forward, but towards her, promptly silencing her laughter.

"No —" she responded to his move by scrambling round a newspaper vending machine so it served as a barrier, "you're right. I do like you. I would not kick you out of bed," she emphasized each sentence by motioning a palm to him. "Having said that, I acknowledge and respect that you are not —" He took her outstretched hand in his, flustering her into daze, "… not… not… uh —" He began to smile innocently in the midst of their growingly non-platonic behavior, shooting her an expectant glance. At this stage, her once-confident tone had dwindled to something meek, "… _interested_."

He dropped her hand the way one would drop a cup of coffee in shock, as did his smile.

"What?"

"Well," she resumed her walk with a pensive frown, with him following, "you don't seem the type to be comfortable with that sort of, uh, casualness, seeing as how you are rarely ever…" It was at this point she realized she was making no sense at all, so she effected a sudden, helpless gesture as though it would complement her point, throwing in the last word in vain, "— _casual_."

As she made a pained grimace at her uncharacteristic lack of eloquence, he took the opportunity to advance on her again, nodding eagerly. "But I am interested. _Very_ interested."

His approach was quickly spotted and she bounded ahead to stretch the proximity he quite noticeably wished to close. "Uh, _no_, no!" Her hand was held out as an almost taming gesture. "No, you're not!" A thought hit her, upsetting her sense of mental direction. "Uh, at least - at least not in the way I am. You see, certain people have, uh, certain ideas of their interests —" she began with a desperately optimistic glance, to which he returned with one of mock curiosity.

A stray sash of her overcoat fluttered towards him thanks to a gust of wind, which he caught. He used this anchorage to slowly tow her towards him, throwing off her bearings even more so.

"— w-which differ from the ideas of, of, ofofofotherpeople!" She appeared immensely glad to reach the end of that sentence. "— who, who may share those interests, but —" her voice began to wander as their fronts touched, "… dahh, um, er, they like, uh, can't assume that their interests match completely because like, their ideas might not be like, the same. Does, does that like, make sense?"

"Like, no."

His mockery was responded with a flick between the eyes to intercept another kiss, momentarily stunning him as she whipped around him, hoping that his hold on her overcoat's sash had released. It hadn't, forcing him to be twirled around in a circle.

"Let goooo!" she mewled petulantly while laughing, trying to yank back the sash like an attention-deprived toddler. "I'm not a reindeer!"

With a smile, small but suggestive enough to establish his triumph, he let go. Immediately, she sought security from behind a lamp post as she arranged her sash back in order, keeping a vigilant eye on his movements.

"You should not stand there."

"Why? Why not? Because you want me to stand closer to _you?_"

His eyes were pinned on something close by as he took several steps back. "That would be wise."

Just when she was about to retort with something snarky, she began to hear it approaching. Turning around, her mouth opened to cry out in alarm, but that was when the snow plow blazed past, charging a swell of snow and melted ice in their general direction, with her bearing the brunt of it. Actually, _all_ of it; she'd served as his shield. She shrieked upon impact and stood frozen (almost literally) on the pavement. Very slowly, she lifted her quivering hands to her face to wipe the snow caking her face and then, visibly shivering, she turned to face Castiel, who was looking vaguely smug.

Making a face and lifting a finger, the gesture translated plainly into "Not – one – word!".

"You should listen to me more often."

Her scowl was withering but her smile was irrepressible, and then she scooped up the snow that had happily settled itself in her cleavage and threw it at him.

"Alrighty then! How about this?" she continued their previous discussion ardently, defiant to her freezing condition. "I'm not interested in you, the way you're interested in me!"

This had him stopping completely. She caught onto it.

"Oh no no no, that doesn't sound good," she grimaced, both at her words and of course, at the cold. She took an apologetic step towards him, "Uh, okay, that wasn't true, exactly. I mean, that you _expect_ differently from me." Her eyes ignited and she applauded. "Yes! Expect! Expectations! That's the word I needed!"

He regarded her with a mixture of impatience and fascination as he reached out and gently brushed away the ice that burdened her collarbone, watching as a stray drop of water escaped his own fingers and trailed at a sensuously sedate pace into the bust of her dress. One could say that a part of him was clinging to her now.

"Why must you complicate things?"

"Because those kind of relationships are complicated," she answered, smiling wryly. "Friendships are easier."

"So," he plunged his hands down the pockets of his trench coat, "you're not complicating the matter, you're merely cowering from it."

Her smile remained frozen from her previous words, but her eyes flickered with begrudging thought. Finally, she haughtily chirped, "Yes! Is that a problem?"

"Yes," he said, nodding absently. He teetered thoughtfully on the spot, before walking off with the last word. "But it's not mine."

Speechless and blushing uncontrollably, her mouth opened and closed dumbly. Then, aggravated to be made a fool of, she hurried after him.

"Hey! Hey, COME BACK HERE!"

* * *

Eight reviews for the last chapter; my goodness, I haven't hit eight since chapter ten - what's goin' on?

Read and review! :D


	26. No Glove, No Love

"I don't get it – how can someone lose their desire for sex? Honestly."

Her interjection, incredulously lilted and more carrying than needed, hooked his attention away from the tangled graffiti on the subway floor.

Having bore witness to the snow plow's impromptu rendition of Moses' parting of the Red Sea and sustaining the firsthand reverberations of its effective performance, Audrey no longer wished to walk out in the cold, so they agreed – or, to be precise, he followed without dispute – on taking the subway. Oh, the subway. If, hypothetically speaking, winged unicorns of pure white and radiating of heaven's light (and, considering the style of this description, apparently designed by Dr. Seuss) delivered righteous souls to heaven, then a subway was in order for those less worthy.

There they were, sitting on those seats of a color and material which failed to charm those already annoyed to be taking the subway in the first place, having only the options of staring at the glazed looks worn by other passengers or out the window into the jarring visual staccato, wherein lies the risk of succumbing to a violent epileptic fit. It smelt, it was decaying, the halogen lights were dying – though its original anemic color should have indicated its impending demise … come to think of it, in some respects, Sam and Dean would have felt right at home.

He decided that taking the subway was more of a grudging necessity to most, rather than an actual preference. By the look on her face, he sensed she regretted this idea the moment she reluctantly claimed a seat that carried a phallic shaped piece of graffiti, while he took the one next to her. It seemed that growing up in Manhattan taught her wisely against being vocally dissatisfied about the subway, since it was the mutual opinion undesirably shared among passengers, so instead, she invested all attention into something else, and that was the New York Post she found under her seat.

And he had the sneaking suspicion, and hope, that it was an article or some form of commentary in that newspaper that inspired such an interjection.

At the time, he had been leaning forward with his chin rested on clasped hands, puzzling over what the near-unintelligible _"Who watches the Watchmen?" _graffiti on the floor could possibly mean.

When her interjection intervened his regard, he looked at her from over his shoulder – or rather, he more looked at the newspaper hiding her face.

"I beg your pardon?"

Tearing the newspaper away and already looking at him, she said, "This article I just read. It was about how you can regain your desire for sex." She scoffed. "I mean, who loses it in the first place?"

Almost as an unconscious intent for emphasis, he gave her a once-over. "In saying that, I presume you haven't lost yours?"

"I'm only human," she said dryly. "If I'm hungry, I eat. If I'm tired, I sleep. If I wanna have sex –" A rolling motion with her hand, "– it's all relative."

Wanting to continue with this logic, he lifted his chin a fraction. "I see. How often are you –" Unwittingly, his gaze darkened, "– hungry?"

Her lips quirked upwards, her expression otherwise remaining dry. "I'm not promiscuous, Cas, if that's what you're wondering. I don't literally go out and find a guy and sleep with them just because I want to. But that doesn't mean I don't … _crave_ the feeling. And for that, I just don't understand why the average person can suddenly stop desiring it." Reflecting her words, she hastily added, "With another person! The real thing, not the, y'know, "solo performance". If someone can manage that, then I salute them," she finished, actually saluting.

"Victims of rape and domestic abuse," he suggested.

"Disregarding them; that's totally understandable."

"Virgins."

She chewed the inside of her lip for a thoughtful moment. "What kind of virgins? Some are virgins by choice, some aren't. And I'm almost convinced that the not-by-choice-virgins quite possibly desire sex more than the average ex-virgin. That's why teenagers are nothing but a big, billowing crowd of hormones."

"And the virgins by choice?"

"That's easy. They're virgins by choice because they don't desire sex – until marriage, that is, or whatever it is they're abstaining from." Frowning at herself, she shook away further reasoning and folded up the newspaper. "Look, I'm not trying to be completely literal here, I'm just saying," a smile crept onto her face, "y'know, what's not to like?"

All he could respond with was a sort of understanding nod as he turned away, facing forward intently, chin still rested on clasped hands. It was enough to translate to, "Hmm, you've given me a lot to think about", when really, he didn't know what sort of conclusion his mind was working to discover. Then, she gasped.

"Are _you_ a virgin?"

Her words, though low and hushed, a tactful effort to emerge discreetly, still somehow drew the attention of all the women (and a few men) within a fifteen foot radius of their carriage. Becoming acutely aware of the sudden proverbial spotlight being shone on him, he sat up straight in his seat, a belated display of formality. Such a probing question would generally have him staring elsewhere for refuge, but it was presently difficult to do so when elsewhere held even more pairs of eyes subtly beckoning him for an answer.

"_Audrey_ –" The sheer curiosity in her eyes made it wholly difficult to look at her, "– this is a very inappropriate discussion that we cannot by any means continue as we are about to reach our stop."

And within a beat, the subway began to screech to a steadying stop as the disembodied voice on the PA announced the station. Everyone else resumed their own preoccupations at once, but Audrey's determined gaze did not relent to reality as quickly. She acknowledged his luck, and his evasion, with a knowing smile. Something told him that this wasn't the end of that conversation.

* * *

"The streets are active, tonight," was the first thing he said once they exited the station and emerged out onto the streets. Despite the late hour, the streets were abuzz. Only in Manhattan.

"That's 'cause it's the eve of Christmas Eve." Her voice seemed unusually distracted, and tracing said voice to the face it transpired from, he found that her eyes were attached to an approaching couple. Couple, as in, a zealous young man whom he recognized and his tiny dog, who wore a Christmassy tutu. The poor, unfortunate soul.

"Why, if it isn't the little mermaid, Ariel herself!" Nicky addressed amiably, effeminate lisp still in effect, fluttering his fingers at them both while still holding onto the dog leash swaggered with diamantes. He inflicted his vibrant grin onto Castiel. "_And_ Mr. Familiar Face!" The grin floundered into a grimace as he took in the angel's attire. "Mr… Familiar Trench Coat and Suit Ensemble … _hurm_."

While Audrey acknowledged him simply with a wry smile – they were beyond the stage in their friendship where affection had to be verbal – Castiel greeted him with a modest hello.

"Evident lack of imagination in the wardrobe department aside, how have _you_ been?" There was no opportunity to answer; it was as if Nicky had the ability to glean answers out of nothing. "Have you been working out? Tsk. Been doin' a few laps at the YMCA, have you? I'm not allowed there anymore. Something about public indiscretion."

Smiling sweetly, she cooed with mock sympathy. "Sometimes I feel verbal communication should fall under public indiscretion when it comes to you, honey."

In response, he took a rascally bite out of the air in her direction before resuming, "I don't need 'em anyway. Who would want airborne sweat sidling into their lungs? _Yech_. It couldn't have been good for my soprano pipes, tailored _specifically_ for the the-_a_-ter. Oh! This is my bitch!" Beaming proudly, he pointed a thumb at the dog at his feet, "Monica Lewinsky. _MONICA!_" he raged, noticing the apparent friskiness of the canine. "What did I just say about doing that in public? Keep at it and you can expect a visit from the smack fairy! And do we want any drama llamas? No siree, we do not!"

He muttered something resembling "You're a frisky little thing tonight, arencha?" before thrusting the handle of the dog leash to Audrey as though it were a dead bird.

"Be a doll and hold this for a sec, wouldja?"

The instant she accepted the handle, he gave two brisk claps, prompting the dog to charge forward like a bat out of hell, forcibly towing an unsuspecting Audrey with her. As they watched her struggle to keep pace with the skittish canine, all the while squealing some particularly unladylike things, Nicky turned to the angel with a devious smile, striking a hint of dread in him right away.

"That should keep her occupied for the ninety seconds us boys so sorely need." Castiel did his best not to manifest a pained expression of "Do we _really?_", and instead, blinked expectantly at him.

"Sooo, you and Audrey… is this a date?" he asked, his tone strangely wilted, as though he was not happy about this at all, despite the smile he wore.

"Not exactly."

"Ah, _not exactly_, I see, I see," he echoed breathlessly. From the way his eyes narrowed, Castiel suspected he was attempting to read between the lines. "Well well _well_, just so you know," he resumed stiffly, pulling out his Banana Republic wallet and ferreted for something inside, "my girl rarely goes out into the rain without a raincoat if you catch my drift, so –" Nicky took the angel's hand and placed something there, closing his fingers over it for him, "– use it in case things get a bit _wet,_" he winked devilishly, a proud smirk manifesting at his own mischief.

Castiel opened his hand, peering at the object. He had seen these in her bedside drawer. He had even seen a few of these in Dean's bags.

He glanced back up at Nicky quizzically. "What does this have to do with rain?"

Nicky only managed to look at him for a split second with that all too familiar look of incredulity following his recurring demonstrations of naivety, but that was when Audrey, who had finally gathered control of the frisky Monica Lewinsky, came rushing back, panting.

"Hey, what's that?"

A panicked gape was immediately thrown the angel's way by Nicky, and any other man would promptly close their hand, but having little concept of shame, especially when it came to matters he only understood on a surface level, said gape virtually bounced right off of him. So, she saw it, right there in his hand, in its prophylactic glory. Wondering what he did wrong, he frowned between the two; she had reddened and begun to look mildly affronted, while Nicky grimaced so hard it appeared to pain him. In a frantic haste, he seized the leash from her hands, and scuttled off in another direction.

"Uh, uhh, 'til we meet again, sweet prince - goodnight, goodnight! Parting is such a sweet sorrow, seize the day; reduce, reuse, recycle; vote democrat, wear a condom, remember, remember the fifth of November; Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the fandango? After all, tomorrow is another dayyy—" Random phrases continued to gush in abundance until he was beyond earshot.

Audrey was still helplessly floundering between amusement and indignance. "Cas, um… what do you… what do you expect to happen when you … when _we_ arrive at my … place of residence?"

"Nothing."

A decidedly approving nod. "That's right. Now –" She closed his fingers over the plastic and guided his hand accordingly, "let's put that away and just, um…" It intrigued him how effortlessly he was able to fluster her lately, when his hand closed around hers as they both dipped into the pocket of his coat to deposit the object. Her "um"'s progressed breathlessly as he drew his venturesome fingers languidly up her wrist. The entire time, he watched her with unmoved curiosity as her eyes lowered reluctantly to his touch at her inner wrist; watched as she stopped breathing entirely to prevent a bout of panting that threatened to betray; watched as her face began to burn, possibly at the emergence of the indecent theory that his slow onslaught was perhaps an implicit display of … technique.

He watched as she struggled to conceive an exit strategy from his pleasantly distracting touch, then finally, she managed to latch onto a sliver of composure as she wrenched her hand away.

"Anywaythankyouforthat, I'mjustgonna —"

Reeling away from him too frenziedly, she collided with a very small lady who looked to be in the ideal mood to kick some cute farm animals. While Audrey apologized, the lady muttered something into her generous bosom in another language that she wouldn't have understood. But Castiel did.

"Perdóname –" Both the strength of his tone and unexpected language use barred her from trudging off in a Spanish huff; at her attention, his gaze sharpened authoritatively, "– pero ella no es una puta estadounidense mensa." The Latina's eyes flew open in alarm. Audrey, to whom he nodded a head towards, witnessed the exchange in amazement. "Pienso que debes disculpas a esta señorita."

Ignorant to what was being said, Audrey had been staring at him in astonishment when she was suddenly bombarded with profuse apologies from the lady, switching to and from English and Spanish. Then, the Latina scampered away like the frightened little lamb she would have been fully prepared in kicking earlier as she turned to him, an inquisitive look unsurprisingly etched across her face.

"Um, care to clarify?"

"She called you a stupid American whore."

"WHAT?"

"But then apologized incessantly."

She deflated with gratitude, though her brow remained furrowed, as if disgruntled she hadn't the chance to speak to the woman herself. "Thank you, I guess, my, uh, bilingual hero," she smiled weakly.

The immediate urge to inform her that he actually knew of _all_ languages ever existed appeared, but he eased it aside. "You're welcome."

The steam of their previous scene shared began to seep back into the foreground, fogging all formality, very nearly masking the sound of her phone ringing. They held eye contact as she answered.

"Hello?" She broke eye contact, her expression lurching like a meerkat. "_Oh!_ Hi, hiya Daddy."

Well if _that_ didn't serve as a metaphorical bucket of cold water! Their walk resumed as she became immersed in conversation for a full five minutes. He had the courtesy to turn a deaf ear to it, until this part of the conversation came along:

"You're visiting soon? That's brilliant!" This was oddly off-putting.

"I kept your room just the way you like it." And he'd be staying at her apartment? How … bothersome.

"And you can meet my new friend, Castiel!" He paled.

"He's really nice. Although, Daddy, I don't know why, but he really insists on touching me." He gave her a look that could have knocked that phone right out of her hands.

"You sure? 'Cause he seems like a good guy. He hasn't told me his surname yet though. Or his job. Or where he lives. Hm. That _is_ suspicious, actually. Well. I'll have you decide when you meet him."

Apparently angels were not immune to the dread that was "meeting the parents", which was ironic, considering who _his_ Father was. Much to his comfort, the conversation fell into something unrelated to him, but the dismal note of its eventual close did not elude him.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, watching as she somberly toyed with the phone in her hands.

Her gaze shot to him, as though she'd forgotten his presence, before smiling wanly. "I'm fine. My dad just mentioned my mom. She passed away ten years ago."

His brow furrowed sympathetically. "I'm sorry." Internally, he had blanched at her mention of death. Death was probably the closest detail of her life that related to why he was presently among mankind. It brought him to the obvious yet easily forgotten reality that she was human and he was an angel. He rather enjoyed the quiet bliss of not having this fact overtly rooted in his mind.

"She died before I turned nineteen," she went on, hardly acknowledging his remorse as she fixated on the memory, "Daddy moved to London and married the Camilla to my mom's Diana." Her tone was detached, and even by studying her, he couldn't quite fathom where her sentiments resided for these statements. Eyes widened with a childlike inquisitiveness were suddenly on him. "Do you have any siblings, Cas? I have a sister. Sigourney. The favorite daughter."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

A nostalgic smile arose, almost reluctantly. "Our parents loved us very much but… I couldn't help but get the feeling that she was favored. Which is odd. Usually the younger one – which is _me_ – is more often favored. I was always a Marlon, never a Michael. Or even a LaToya."

There was silence as he supposedly absorbed this in a respectful quiet, when really, he was working fruitlessly to make sense of her usage of people's names as countable nouns.

"What about you? What's your family's story?"

Unprepared for when she threw him this delicate question, it nearly rendered him motionless. His face clouded as he mentally groped for a story stretched beyond recognition but still airing of the truth.

"I would say it's not too different from yours." He hoped that would appease, but evidently, her interest only furthered. Frowning harder, he searched for more ambiguously truthful words. "My Father spawned many sons and daughters. We each had our moments of … prominence with him…" His closing tone suggested that there was more to be said, but nothing emerged. Fortunately, she already seemed appeased with what little she had derived from him.

"Are you close to your … many siblings?" she smiled demurely, as though shyly amused by this.

"My family is alike to a garrison," he said, his tone stern but wandering slightly as he became lost in this grim reality. "We are as close as those of a garrison could possibly become."

"So you don't talk to them?"

"We hope to never have to. Almost always, when those moments come by, the reasons are unsurprisingly very dire." Then, somewhat of a startling afterthought: Gabriel was an exception.

"Wow. No offense, but your family sounds all shades of screwed up."

He actually breathed out a small chuckle. "Yes."

"Doesn't that disappoint you though? Don't you long for some sort of … togetherness?"

He stared at her, contemplating the word as though it was written on her face. "I suppose it's no concern of mine as I've never experienced it."

Pity burst theatrically onto her face. "Tsk, awww, Cas! No wonder you're so frigid! C'mere." Hiking herself up onto her toes and wrapping her arms around his neck, she embraced him in a hug.

His immediate reaction was to wrap his arms around her likewise, with a hesitance born of surprise and confusion. Both were induced by the unexpected gesture itself, obviously, and also the fact that she was doing it after so vehemently rebuffing his own. Cursed mixed signals! His second reaction was that of realization, upon seeing that they stood before the elevator doors that led to her home.

Her home. Enclosed, roughly four hundred feet above ground level and agreeably private. _Click!_ went the vanishing light of his halo.

It was curious how the most basic physical touch – with her, at least – worked as such a powder keg of the human instinct that was desire, despite his divine discipline. It was an internal development that had made itself at home in his subconscious, each time emerging from its confines more enthusiastic than ever. Such was his present condition. A combination of her closeness, the threshold to the conveyance that would lead to her personal dwellings, and the vanilla smell of her hair he encountered when he turned his head towards hers, struck that experimental chord in him that had possessed him so notoriously often that night. Slowly, the hands he had splayed across her shoulder blades began to descend.

Almost immediately, he felt a slight turn of her head. "_Castiel_… what are you doing?"

When he felt her unwrap her arms from around him and make a tentative effort to withdraw from the embrace, his hold loaded a pressure that locked her against him. The hug very predictably failed to retain an ounce of platonic…ness, as was occurring with alarming regularity with everything. At their proximity, she was unable to hide from him her short intake of breath as his hands came to rest at the small of her back. This allowed her the liberty to arch back her upper half in order to look at him face to face, which is what he was expecting. When she did, he went for the lips. But she was quick.

"Stop it!" she laughed, lightly shoving him away at the chest but then keeping her hand there. "Friends don't kiss!"

"I don't feel very friendly at present," he said, pursuing her again, but being denied once more by a finger on his lips. Of all things, the sound of the elevator's _ding!_ succeeded to pry them apart, and emerging from it was Marilyn and her two friends who sported enough fake tan to earn them a role on Jersey Shore. She appraised Audrey, upright in her weather-beaten splendor, before grinning.

"Hot damn, Audrey, what happened to you? You look filthy!" She didn't even bother to affect a notion of concern.

"He made us take a detour through Central Park," she replied, pointing a thumb at him. "Can't keep his hands off me, if you know what I mean."

He made no move to acknowledge that, as it happened to be somewhat accurate. Marilyn's grin froze into place as her eyes went cold, making what was contrived to be a whir of amusement but instead came out a strangled sound of frustration before marching away with her Oompa-Loompa-like friends. He sensed their collective attraction leaning towards him like the towers of Pisa.

And then, there were two again. There was a stillness between them, tinglingly repressive as it was procured by their joint efforts of restraint, serving as a barrier between them, almost literally, considering how thick with inclination said stillness was. Then, with an almost joking stride and that practiced grin that often appeared in the presence of such suspense, she ambled backwards into the elevator carriage, exuding a sort of inviting quality that had him following her for a few steps.

"Do you need me to accompany y—"

"No no! I'm perfectly capable of getting off on my own." Her eyes jolted wide open. "I–I mean, getting _there_ on my own!"

There was a faint satisfaction embedded into his smile that nearly made it a smirk. "Audrey, that elevator is descending to the basement."

Her gaze flew up to the floor indicator before her jaw dropped in righteous umbrage. "Oh, son of a—!"

The doors slid shut before she could get the final word out, and Castiel simply turned to leave, unable to restrain that smirk any longer.

* * *

I GOT INTO MY FILM SCHOOL. I'd edit this chapter more but I cannot function right now.

Read and review :)


	27. The One with the Professor

Had Castiel not been graced with a tolerance level only heaven could provide, he would have been rubbing his what-would-have-been-aching brow at the sight of Dean pacing the room like a caged animal. Instead, he monitored him with uncompromising eyes, crossed arms and a solid resistance to relenting from his word.

"Our best course of action would be to strike at midnight," the angel stressed. Though in a room full of anxious ears, his words were leveled only at the elder Winchester. "Although they'll be in their least vulnerable state, we'll at all events be able to orchestrate the needed ritual, which entails a midnight execution."

Dean, being his routinely difficult self, was already shaking his head in refusal. "No. I don't like it. We might as well go over there swingin' in blindfolds, and considering the hour, we pretty much are!"

"You've made that quite clear, Dean," he retorted, resounding his facial expression of tired exasperation to the hilt, "but have yet to propose a better option." Stepping forward, he addressed the cabin of hunters at large. "This is the means with the most potential in our favor. At no stage did I ever make an assertion of guaranteed safety."

The hunters stirred with grudging agreement, inspiring a scowl to appear on the Winchester's face. He whirled around to one corner of the room, eyes stopping on its subject.

"_Sam!_ Help me out here!"

It seemed that Sam had been one within that grudging stir of agreement, simply making a vague gesture of reluctant acceptance under his brother's regard.

"Dean, he's right. It's the lesser of two evils."

His scowl soured, but restrained an urge to argue, setting it aside for later. "See, this is why the world _sucks!_" his internal commentary escaped. "We shouldn't have to settle for lowdown crap like this!"

"I was under impression that you had reached that judgment long ago," Castiel remarked. At Dean's attention, he neared, demonstrating to the room his natural force of presence. "Do not believe that I am unmindful of the risks, because I am _painfully_ conscious of them as much as you are. But this plan, of which I very much do not desire to personally lay claim to, is everything and nothing we have." If possible, his gaze exacerbated further. "So, if you still trust yourself to be unbelievably arrogant in thinking you are above this moral deadlock … uh, _haters to the left_."

Ceremoniously, the angel swept out of the room as it plummeted to a silence. Though already silent to begin with, the sound of all mental thought stopping somehow made remarkable contrast. Sam's lips were pressed in a firm line, suppressing a look of untimely amusement, while Dean continued to regard the air itself where Castiel had just stood, his expression of discontent recoiling into one of stark bewilderment. He was stationary for a long moment, feeling puzzled gazes being thrown about the room, before he started out this paralysis and wheeled around at his middle to his brother.

"_What_ did he say?"

* * *

"… it was truly unalike anything I've ever witnessed before. I still fail to understand why it happened. The plan came to completion with … an unprecedented precision achieved by humans, but nonetheless, I've yet to find the explanation for as to why our enemies disintegrated into glass once dispatched by a hunter. They were the last of their kind, and although barbaric and unworthy of this world, I feel that we could have learned more about their nature. Yes… learning more about the Adversary could ultimately be of benefit."

"Uh huh, uh huh," Gabriel pretended to acknowledge as he poured hot milk into a coffee mug. "Tell me more about Little Red."

Castiel, who had been boring a vehement stare into the counter-top, glanced up. "I didn't mention Audrey."

Eyes glued to his task, he smirked. "But you're itching to." At the absence of response, he settled down the pitcher and pasted on an expectant glance. "What, suddenly we have nothing to say?"

Upon view, Gabriel discovered that he hadn't demurred from speaking, but was rather fixating on the thought of her in a wistful calm.

He spoke slowly, still undecided with words. "She is so …"

"_Hot!_" His gaze flew to Gabriel, bewildered, finding that he was actually addressing a customer he was presenting a coffee to. "— so be careful with that!" Their eyes met again and he beamed. "Go on."

Though slightly thrown off, he resumed. "I have stumbled upon many anomalies on this earth, but when it comes to her, I can only —"

"_Butter that muffin?_" He peered up again. He was talking to _another_ customer. "As in, would you like me to?"

"– describe her as being —"

"_In heat?_ For thirty seconds? Sure!"

"– utterly indefinable, which in truth, I find is quite —"

"— _possibly something you'd like to tear off a piece of and devour 'til your insatiable desire for its finger-licking sweetness is spent?_ They're our new Upside Down Cherry Muffins, folks! Low fat!"

"… charming."

Turning away from the patrons of coffee, Gabriel grinned broadly in the face of such delightful innocence. "So why the uncertain face?" Pouting, he added, "Why so serious, hm?"

His judgments twinging him, Castiel fidgeted a little. "On occasion, she can strike me as being somewhat of a —"

"_Tart?_"

At this, his focus snapped back to Gabriel, who was holding out to him a small dish that held the last mini peach tart.

"No thank you."

* * *

Looming out of the darkness onto the corner of Christopher and Seventh, he sighted nearby the warm, golden light being spilled onto the pavement like a humble ray of sunshine from the windows of _Central Perk_. It emanated the atmosphere of a cozy, intimate cottage that local residents of the Village sought quick comfort in. A dainty little bell chimed as he entered, the icing sugar on top of this idyllic setting which _amazingly_ sustained itself within the brutality of the surrounding world, and straightaway he spotted her sitting at a high top table smack in the middle of the room, staring with unusual interest into her coffee mug as though it could foretell her future.

Almost automatically – and, even to this instant, remaining a riddle as to why – his attention fell straight to her legs. For all one knows, this could be normal human behavior – it may be that the lower limb area was the customary zone of direct attention. But then again, he had never turned this manner of scrutiny to either Winchester brother, and for some enigmatic reason, he instantly decided against it. There was nothing wrong with the human body, but the idea of looking at them the way he looked at her? That was enough to make him internally grimace in a rare show of revulsion.

Garnished by her continued unwise penchant for fashionably intimidating mini-skirts, her legs extended from within them, one settled over the other and for once not sheathed in stockings. Instead, tonight, and it could be that this fashion move was even _more_ unwise, she sported yellow socks that stretched right over her knees. Boots had been snubbed, as avowed, but substituting them for the luridly pink Mary Jane heels she wore didn't make much of a tactful improvement in the end. The whole image cooperatively screamed virginity and its inverse, the visual paradox oddly inviting.

A spoon poked out of her mouth as she took a photo of her half empty (or arguably half full) coffee mug, for reasons that probably made sense only to her. He took a step forward just as the flash winked, his movement in the background hooking her notice. As soon as she saw him, her jaw dropped, the spoon clattering onto the table, and said three words, very slowly.

"Oh. My. God."

That instant, five heads whipped in her direction, attached to the bodies of the regulars who often lounged around the neighboring coffee table. At their glimpse of Audrey, they breathed a collective sigh of relief, as though they were expecting to see someone less desired.

"Audrey," he said by way of greeting as he moved towards her table. She stayed seated, gaping as he approached, until she leaped from her stool and gave him a big hug, camera still in hand.

"_Hi!_" she caroled, dropping back onto her seat as he claimed his own. She gestured him. "I haven't seen you in a week! And a day. Or two."

"Do you find that to be overly extensive?"

"_Mm_not as such. But I didn't get to see you for Christmas Eve, or Christmas Day, or New Year's Eve, or New Year's Day…"

"I apologize for my absence," he said, lacing his fingers together on the table, "I've been busy."

"Busy on _those_ dates?" She shot him a look of great pity. "Your job sucks."

"It has its limitations, yes." His regard, which had fallen to her coffee as recollection of the mission enveloped him, refocused suddenly. "Was there a reason why you were photographing your coffee?"

"You know how some people see the Virgin Mary or Jesus in their food?"

His eyes flashed up to her, then to the beverage, before unceremoniously reaching out and pulling it towards him for inspection. "That is _impossible_ —"

"I see Jimmy Fallon in mine." His hard scrutiny eased at this. She leaned over the table to survey it for herself. "Oh, now it's Oliver."

Discontent burgeoned within him as she pulled it back to her, nostalgia passing over her face as she observed its frothy contents. Wanting very much to rid her of any thought of him, he plucked a clean spoon from the serving platter of a passing waitress without looking and flung it into her drink, succeeding in diverting her and eliminating whatever image she was deriving from the liquid.

"With all due respect, I find it difficult to believe that you were involved with him." Her lips curved modestly, otherwise focusing on twirling around the new spoon. "He doesn't seem like your ideal acquaintance, aesthetics aside," he found himself pressing on, "I had expected you to be romantically interested in someone like —"

"Someone like you?"

His gaze adjusted to her from the spoon in her hands, darkening eloquently. "I'm the last person I expect you to become involved with."

She made a face of mirthful disbelief, allowing the spoon to rest. "Oh, right, _sure_," she scoffed, folding her arms on the table and inclining forward coyly. "Alright then – who do you think is my type?"

He dipped his head towards something behind her. "Him."

She twisted around in her seat, only to swiftly whisk back around with the addition of a horrified grimace. "_Gunther?_"

Frowning at her and the blond she thought he was referring to, he shook his head. "No. Look at the framed photograph, up there."

Making the same motion, she returned to him wearing an expression of amused discombobulation. "The Naked Cowboy? Because I'm obviously the Naked Cowgirl."

"You're both unconventional," he offered.

"But he takes it to a whole new level! In the music world, I'm Lady GaGa and he's… the Village People member they cut."

Castiel decided not to show his ignorance by asking. Being above finger-pointing, he directed a gaze to another male. "Him."

"Stoner."

"Him."

"Stoner's dealer."

"Him."

"Stoner's dad, and do you really think I go for older men?"

"I'm –" and he meant his vessel, "– nine years your senior."

"What does _that_ have to do with anything?"

Her mock naivety was received as a challenge he would see to later, and then directed his gaze to another. "Him."

She snorted. "That's you, with glasses."

"That's not an answer."

Her smile grew sly. "Maybe. Maybe if he loses the glasses."

A weary sort of amusement marked his features, and she noted the significance of it immediately. "Sorry, I shouldn't say stuff like that," she said, shamefaced. "I don't wanna lead you on."

Trademark tilt of his head. "What do you mean?"

"You know – to give someone misleading signals." Her smile was sheepish. "I'm–I'm trying to stop that now."

He stared at her. Then, hooking his foot around one leg of the stool she sat on, he steadily pulled her towards him, and she jumped in her seat, unprepared for its sudden movement.

Once their knees touched, he said, "Well done."

A blushing smile escaped her restraint as she averted his gaze, contriving to appear occupied with the camera in her hands. "The Force is strong with this one," she quoted in a smiling mumble.

Then, with a sigh, deciding wisely to treat this with more discretion, she settled down the camera and looked him in the eye. Finding that his eyes had been on her the entire time, it nearly threw her off again completely, but she clung to that ounce of composure in defiance.

"_Cas_," her smile swelled at the feel of his name, "you know I would love to mess around with you but…" The smile thinned as something cynical constrained her.

"What?" he prompted, frowning.

She studied him, wanting to phrase her words just right in deference to his evident interest. "I just … don't have a good feeling about that. It's not _you_, it's the _idea_ of knowing you in that way. I can't put my finger on what it is exactly," she mumbled the latter while Castiel frowned, crestfallen, but not at her. Was the _universe_ inspiring this apprehension within her to obstruct him?

"I understand," he nodded solemnly. It _must_ be the universe. Telling him to either leave her alone or disclose his true self to her: two options with an equal lack of appeal.

Smiling ruefully, she reached out to squeeze his hand. "Thank you." He barely acknowledged her gesture, focusing purely on her eyes. Disappointment simmered behind them, her true desires not far beneath. This apprehension was her – _their_ only obstruction. All she really needed was a little push. That measure was to be deferred when someone behind him caught her eye. "Oh my God."

Bristling briefly at this common utterance, he looked over his shoulder. A man of about Audrey's age had entered, either oblivious or impervious to the lovely atmosphere and instead fully engrossed (and noticeably frustrated) by something on his cell phone. Short, stout, bragging a healthy head of curly hair and donning a pair of Clark Kent-type glasses. In a world of his own, he hobbled in, jolting away guiltily after swatting random people by accident with the umbrella he kept protruded under his arm. Castiel looked between him and Audrey's stare of wonder, latching on to the significance.

"Him then," he muttered.

"No no no, I know him!" she whispered fervently. "That's Professor!"

"Professor who?"

"I don't know his actual name," she chuckled sheepishly. "We went to the same school. He was a bit of nerd, so everyone called him Professor."

They both watched as "Professor" tucked away his phone with a nettled whine as a taller, lankier figure, who had been one of the five to glance paranoiacally at Audrey earlier, moved for the exit. Professor, recognizing him, gave him a respectful nod as he stepped aside.

"Professor Geller," he nodded. This stern, masculine facade he had assumed was such an ill-fitting appearance on him, not at all coordinating his manboyish qualities.

"Professor —" They leaned forward, anticipating the name that followed, but unluckily, Professor Geller looked equally as lost. After a climactic moment of searching the air for a name, he nodded, a sober expression in place. "Professor," he acknowledged conclusively, before striding out, leaving a slightly dejected but none the surprised Professor in his wake.

As he approached the counter, Audrey flailed a hand uncouthly at him, halting him. "Hee_ey!_ Professor!"

"Hello?" he replied, in an effort to appear genial but confusion getting the better of him. "I–I'm sorry, are you a student of mine?" He had a very mousy quality; he seemed perpetually skittish as though he had something to hide. And then there was the slight ten year old boy lisp he possessed.

"No, it's me, Audrey Hathaway! I went to Calhoun with you. I was a sophomore when you were a senior, we were both in the school's production of Annie —"

Already, recognition had pleasantly blossomed on his face. "Oh! Oh, _wow!_ Hi! I–I didn't recognize you with the – with the red hair! _Very_ Poison Ivy, I must say."

"Yes," she giggled, vainly flicking a hand through her hair. With the same hand, she gestured Castiel. "This is Castiel, my, um…" Their gazes merged dubiously. "… good male platonic friend."

Professor observed this gaze from the sidelines, thoroughly furrowing his face in bafflement before shaking the angel's hand amiably. "Nice to meet you. Um, listen, I'd love to chat, really," he said, raising a finger at Gunther, non-verbally requesting his usual order for the night, "– to tell you the truth, I, heh, could really use a social life, but I–I–I have a class to teach."

"You're a teacher?"

Demurely, he smiled and nodded. "I'm a … professor."

As trademark as Castiel's frown and head tilt, there appeared her pageant smile. "You lived up to your name, that's nice!"

"Yeah, I'm a physics professor at NYU," he embellished, chest swelling with pride. "You know… you're–you're free to join me, if you'd like!" he proposed to them both, with wide eyes reflecting hope, desperation and an unmistakable desire to be loved. "You wouldn't be impeding the students' learning in any way. The class is extra-curricular and totally recreational."

"Oh!" In an instant, Audrey's pleading eyes clung to Castiel. "Can we go? Can we can we can we go? We should go! It would be so fun! I've never been on a college campus since Columbia."

At its mention, Professor grimaced. "Ewww. Go Bobcats!"

"No, go Lions!" she playfully argued. Both turned to the angel expectantly. When he did not respond in accordance, Professor spoke.

"So, Castiel, is it? Wh–where did you go to college?"

Rummaging far into the mental archives of information, he pulled out a detail from Sam's life. "Stanford," he answered.

Having not been fully acquainted with Castiel, this didn't take Professor by surprise at all, who nodded at this admission with an acknowledging hum as he accepted his coffee-to-go from Gunther. So the only pair of eyebrows raised were indeed Audrey's.

"Wow, I really can't picture that," she said, directing to him an arch smile. "Eighteen year old Castiel, living on the West Coast. In the _nineties_."

"So, so, what was your major?" asked Professor, thumbing the bridge of his glasses as he shepherded them outdoors.

"Yes, what _was_ your major?" The glint in her eye and tone of voice suggested to him that she imagined this piece of information would aid her in fathoming the mystery that was his career.

"Philosophy and Religious Studies." Technically it wasn't a lie at all. His whole existence majored in this. Her interested gaze dimmed a little, this information clearly not clarifying much.

He found he rather liked that she was keen to know. He nearly smiled.

Professor, however, laughed and elbowed him sportively. "Religion, huh? As in, theology? Heh, I guess – I guess that makes us adversaries, hey buddy?" His attempt at male camaraderie was a bit sad.

"No kidding!" Audrey interjected. "Castiel is actually a professor at, um, the Union Theological Seminary!"

As Professor blew out a whistle to hail a cab, Castiel assailed her with an appalled stare. What _was_ it with her and fabricating stories? On some level, he concluded that she _must_ be a pathological liar.

"Oh! On–on Broadway, right? And affiliated with," Professor made a face, "_Columbia?_"

"Yep. Somehow, this guy here," she looped his arm around his, a move of which he was immediately mindful of, "made me realize that jargon, not content, is what turns people off of religion." Fabrication aside, he stared at her in surprise. It sounded like a genuine opinion. From his scrutiny of her, he noticed Professor standing at her other side, eying her with what was probably indignation.

Then their eyes met. Castiel managed a small smile, but wouldn't be surprised if it emerged a smirk. "I'm certain _physics_ is equally as compelling."

"Oh it is! V–Very compelling!" he said, rounding to his side of the cab. "A plethora of verifiable _FACTS_ –" he emphasized the word like a slap in the face over the top of the cab, "– what fun!"

Professor embarked the vehicle, dodging the brunt of Castiel's withering facial expression of "Bitch, _please!_", before following them both inside.

"Facts are good," Audrey decided, claiming the middle seat.

Professor dimpled, glowing with appreciation. "Thank you."

It was then that he realized what this was. They were competing not for her affections, but for her preferred philosophy. And if he couldn't have her intimately, he had to have her _intellectually_.

"Faith is more worthwhile existentially," he proclaimed.

Turning to him, she nodded. "A fine point."

Professor quickly fumbled for a shot of his own. "Uh, uh, _fact_ is more reliable."

She nodded to him. "That's true." She then became spectator to their tennis match of quick parries.

"Faith encourages morals."

"Fact is absolute!"

"Faith is transcendent."

"Fact is empirical!"

"Faith is _beyond_ empiricism."

"HEY!" They all jumped in their seat (excluding Castiel, who jumped for no one) when the cab driver's patience snapped. "Do you people have a place in mind or should I be charging you to sit?"

In a hangdog mumble, Professor imparted their destination. "M–Meyer Hall on Washington Place."

* * *

I'm getting a bit worried, guys. Since I got into my film school, I can't really continue with this story post-2011 because I will be busy as hell. I'd have moved out of home and into a different state with my best friend, struggling to makes ends meet on our own. So I have two options: write this story in its full length even if it means writing into 2011, but there lies the risk that it becomes abandoned because I'll be constantly imposed with real life, _or_ condense this story hardcore, and I really don't want to do that. I'd try rushing my updates but sometimes my muse to write just isn't there, and even still, to achieve its intended length would mean two or three updates a week, which is impossible for me, unless you'll settle for first drafts of chapters, lol.

Oh and yes, I did allude to only five _Friends_ characters up there. The sixth, being Joey, moved to L.A. for the show _Joey_, remember? ;)

Read and review (and advise?) :)


	28. The Empiricist Strikes Back

He and Professor had a lot more in common than he'd anticipated.

As he watched him thread a needle of interest into his students and string them along the lecture, Castiel realized that this socially awkward man was most confident when he spoke of things he was truly knowledgeable of. Sound familiar? From his seat in the back row of a small auditorium, he could see the young group of about twenty or so students scattered across the two front rows, every head following Professor, unable to detach from his drawing power, as he worked the stage for an hour.

"He is so…" Turning to Audrey, he found her eyes glowing reverently. "… _magnetic!_ Isn't he?" At no response, she looked to him. "Cas?" She matched his frown with her own. "What?"

"Do you believe him?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you have faith in what he says?"

Her eyes flickered hesitantly, as if not fully understanding. "Uh, well, he's teaching, not preaching. Everything he says is scientific fact, so yeah, of course I trust his words."

"Have you ever trusted my words?" he asked. She mistook this inquiry as being affronted and inclined away from him a little.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Cas, but you're not really of a position where your words can just automatically be relied upon." She nodded towards Professor. "He's an _accredited_ professor." She smiled satirically at him. "You _do_ remember you're not a real one, right?"

"I _am_ of a position where my words can be relied upon," he said. His sternness sobered her.

"Well then," she retorted in measured tones, "until you tell me what it is that you do, then your words only amount to Bible-thumpings to me. I'm sorry." There was a pause, entitling him a window of opportunity to tell her, and he actually considered it. The levity rekindled in her eyes when she grinned suddenly. "But I gotta say, if these kids could witness our discussions, I'm sure you'd manage to open up their minds as much as you've done to mine."

He blinked. Had he really done that? Her smile swelled in the tentative appearance of his own. Then, making a decision, he stood from his seat, and her smile fell.

"I have a question." His resonant voice carried across the auditorium, stealing all focus. "Were you planning to inform your students about the relevance of God?"

He ignored Audrey's hisses of "Castiel, sit _down!_" and its variants as she tugged on his arm, while the students exchanged disconcerted glances among them, wondering if this stranger was serious or was perhaps part of a possible "act" their professor had prepared specially for them. Had they noted Professor's bewildered expression caught mid-sentence, they would have concluded no.

"Uh, heh, _no_, for two reasons. One, I–I am only certified in the discipline of science and two, as a teacher, I must teach – as in, enlighten only the, ah, factual-based truths."

Castiel felt himself seize up with indignation. A stinging scowl seeped into his gaze without even frowning, and he only vaguely discerned the sound of Audrey's discreet _"Uh oh_…_"_.

Abandoning that and leaving Castiel hanging (or rather, standing), he turned his attention back down to his students. "Anyway. Back to, ah… y–yes! Yes, the intricate epistemology of the human brain. Remembering that the mechanical electrical activity of the billions of cerebral neurons we all possess somehow metamorphose into distinctive forms of subjective experience —"

"The word "somehow" negates your earlier pledge to enlighten only factual-based truths," he hogged focus again. Audrey was cupping a hand over the side of her face in second hand embarrassment.

"That–that's the point of tonight's class – Modern Science and its Mysteries," he justified tightly, sensing with distaste the proverbial spotlight being stretched to encompass the angel. "The reason why it's not part of the appointed curriculum is because it–its prevalent mysteries are irrelevant to the strict classroom syllabus, but uh, heh, that doesn't mean it isn't fun to discuss."

"There is the likelihood that a mystery is and always has been an impossible matter to be resolved through scientific methods."

"A–and in the same way, there is an equal chance th–that–that a mystery can and will one day be resolved through scientific methods!"

"You will not find it."

"_So many people_," he began, a pitying grin budding on his face, "in the past, have made that implication – that science has reached its limits – only for them to be refuted time and time again."

"I'm not insinuating that there's nothing to find, I'm saying that you would be searching for something unattainable."

His eyes screwed up with such bewilderment he appeared to be in pain. "Wh— I–I–I don't even know what we're _talking_ about anymore!"

"I believe that neglecting to inform your students about the value of religion encourages them further down the path of misguided thought as they foster their scientific understanding."

As Castiel spoke, Professor had been pinching the bridge of his nose, clinging to his forbearance before it tore away from him completely. "A–and like most of your beliefs, y–you are _mistaken!_"

The room hummed with a dramatic _"Ooooh"_ collectively issued by the students, who all whirled around in their seats to discern the damage. Castiel, glowering, looked to Audrey for the simple assurance of her presence beside him, but from the way she stared with studied interest at the ceiling tiles as she twiddled her ankles, she was clearly wanting her presence to be elsewhere.

"A–alrighty then, stranger," Professor's testiness curved his attention, and he watched as he moved to stand behind one of the two lecterns on the stage. He gestured the other. "Why don't you take the, ah, opposition and we'll make tonight's discussion a whole lot more interesting?"

The students beamed at each other, keen for this entire impromptu display. After a thoughtful moment, Castiel moved to exit his row to approach the front. But Audrey, dropping her deaf and mute act, stopped him, grabbing a fistful of his trench coat like a spoiled child.

"Audrey, let go of me."

"No!" she hissed, lowering her head in a feeble attempt to be inconspicuous. "You're not a real professor! You're gonna make an _ass_ of yourself!"

Taking that literally, he confusedly responded, "How could I possibly —"

"Students! This is Professor Castiel from Columbia University," Professor formally announced. Immediately, there were girlish giggles and whispers of "I'm transferring!", which he silenced with a scowl.

"He is from the Union Theological Seminary."

There was instant silence, one so pronounced it practically echoed itself. The students stared at Professor as though he held all the answers, but their gazes became seduced by the mysterious allure of the man presently descending the stairs, a reputation mounting with every step he climbed down that he couldn't quite glimpse.

"That's right. Theology." As Castiel stepped onto the stage, Professor outstretched an arm to gesture him, drawing the climax to all. "Everyone. Meet the adversary." Once he took his post at lectern number two, meanwhile inwardly opining that he did not need to stand behind this accumulation of wood to address humans, Professor turned to him and nodded. "Would you like to launch us into it?"

"What's the topic?" he asked.

"Anything now," he replied. He drew in a pompous air. "Anything you _believe_ in."

Castiel opened his mouth.

"He doesn't even _go_ here!" taunted a voice. Students searched among themselves for the source. Castiel glared straight at Audrey across the room, who shrank in her seat, giggling.

Finally, stoic eyes back on Professor, he spoke. "God exists."

"There is no proof of that."

"Define proof." The responses were swift, less than one second each, but this had Professor hesitating.

"Uh," Professor fumbled with the definition, "proof is honest evidence, or–or an argument that helps establish the, uh, truth or fact of a, ah, statement."

"An argument is not material," Castiel pointed out. "In the same way the evidence of God's existence is not material."

"Those instances are mutually exclusive!" he dismissed, aghast as though personally offended. "By, by that logic, I could say that I…" he made a sharp, helpless motion of his hands, "th–that I have bunny ears, only you can't see them. And I can't provide proof for it because it's _"immaterial"_," he highlighted with air quotes.

"Thereby _your_ logic," he willfully echoed the phrase, "every question, ambiguity and doubt can be answered by means of science and reason."

"Absolutely. Modern science is founded on the premises of materialism, reductionism and the randomness sewn into the very fabric of existence. Everything that can be found _will _be found through it."

At this, Castiel came up dry for words. It was difficult to progress directly from this point. Religion required a suspension of logic, and if he was not of a mind to do so, then this debate was already over.

"Limiting yourselves as no more than physical beings fortuitously conceived in this universe ultimately suggests that there is no fundamental purpose in your lives. With that ideology, it compromises the moral reinforcements set by humanity. Would you not be left with the notion of pointlessness once you've fathomed all facts of the universe and life as it is, having robbed it of its meaning, if any?"

Professor's dumbstruck face illustrated every other one in the room. "I… I–I thought you were supposed to be making a case for religion."

"I feel it's impossible to argue that with someone who is metaphysically disinclined." The room droned with low chuckles, though it hadn't been a conscious attempt at humor. He adjusted his stare quizzically. "Reality is nothing more than a world of solids, liquids and gases to you, isn't it? Nothing beyond the physical garners your belief, which is justifiable. Your body, of which you come to know and identify with, consists of matter. You grow accustomed to amounting matter with reality, in that the word "reality" becomes wrongly synonymous with the term "physical existence"."

Professor was noticeably stumbling to answer the question that had been lost well under Castiel's continued embellishment. When he failed to timely respond, the angel resumed.

"You seek to prove these physical realities. What about non-physical realities?"

"Don't exist."

"Is that so?"

"No question about it."

Castiel cast him a restrained look of pique. "Why are the ideas of spiritual realities and otherworldly realms of mysticism so easily dismissed and limited to superstition? And yet, your modern theories of twenty-six dimensional string worlds are considered plausible with further toleration?"

At its mention, he lurched in surprise. "_How do you even_ – why are you mentioning this?"

"Not for any real reason other than to point out the scientific chauvinism."

The loaded answer made him grimace. "_Hey,_" he leaned in his way furtively, despite standing before an audience of attending ears, "I allowed you over here to _educate my students with religion_," he reminded, poorly hiding the irony in his tone. "What are you doing?"

"By the act of addressing you and your students with religious discourse, I'd be provoking logical thought. Why bother if that train of thought does not even have the potential to draw to my favor?"

"Hey, it's hard to be completely neutral when its religion versus science," he argued weakly. "Science has its set of natural laws, and rules that apply in physics, biology, chemistry —"

"This is what is needed to be understood," he commenced emphatically. "When God designed the universe, transcendental realities such as heaven and hell immediately existed as much as those natural laws of science, and because those realities are _supernatural_, a word suggesting an attribute above and beyond scientific convictions, your natural laws needn't apply at all."

"But the question remains: do those places even _exist_ initially?"

"Yes, immaterially."

Professor threw his hands in the air as he intoned, "And we're back to material!"

"Time is immaterial," he pointed out.

"Time isn't representing a mystical place."

Castiel stopped to mull over that for a moment. "If you are referring to heaven and hell, they are wrongly misconstrued as _places_. These are _realities_ that a physical being cannot reach by any means of navigational aids. Heaven and hell are immaterial realities just as much as time."

"Time is proven," he contended. "Time is now, time is time." He pointed to his watch frenziedly. "_Time!_"

"What about the future? Immaterial, and nor is it proven, nor is it now. And what of emotions?"

Professor's confidence, which was being driven downhill by the surprise lead by how quick Castiel was, revived at the latter question. "Oh, emotions are physical. Experiences, memories and knowledge are all physical. All the ingredients constituting them are uh, _up here,_" he said, tapping his temple.

"Knowledge of the brain does not equate to knowledge of the mind," he indicated.

Instantly wincing, he was reluctant to acknowledge that. "_Wellllll … yeahhh…_"

When there was a lull on both ends, Castiel swept a gaze across his audience, feeling their palpable interest and also the doubts he had set in motion in their minds. He peered down at the lectern and at the notes he didn't have, mentally striving to decide on a new route. Then, lifting his eyes, he let them fall to Audrey from across the room.

"Have you ever kissed anyone before, Professor?" he asked. She shifted forward in her seat, sensing her relevance.

"Of–of–of _course_ I have!" he spluttered, harried by all these unexpected things being thrown at him. He was staring at the angel as though he had just randomly inquired about live poultry.

"Was it enjoyable?"

"Er, I guess?"

He turned his gaze to Professor. "_Why_ was it enjoyable?"

"I was … I dunno, I liked her?"

"No, you misunderstand – why did it feel good? Why does attraction correlate to pleasure?"

"It just does."

Castiel's eyes flared in a rare display of triumph. "_What did you say?_"

"It just – hey! No, _no_, I–I mean, i–it's a chemical reaction! Yes! The, uh, act of kissing someone you are attracted to reacts chemically, and, uh, igniting, um, the, ah, _censors_ in the cerebral cortex, directing you to, uhm, you know –" his hands whirled around each other, in a desperate motion intended to intercept some words, "– feel good!"

"Why does pleasure feel the way it does?"

"_It just_ —" he scowled severely as he caught himself again. "Genome projects are still being done to this day to try to," he made a vague gesture, "figure that out. We already know why and how we feel and remember those things, the question remains as to why they feel the way they do."

Almost pityingly, he smiled, knowing that Professor fully knew how weak that argument was. "As I initially said: you won't find it, because among other things, it's immaterial." Now bearing the needle of interest, he gazed profoundly at the group, stringing them along towards his conclusion. "Transcendent of this reality, alike to the realities of heaven and hell, but on a much smaller scope."

The students nodded, otherwise numb with awe, while Professor looked like he was in danger of passing out. Thankfully, time was on his side.

"Uh, sir?" called out a timid voice. It was a student, raising an equally as timid hand in the air for attention. "Letterman starts in like, twenty minutes and —"

"Oh," he said, or raggedly choked out in relief. He swallowed thickly. "Right." He made a lax shooing motion. "C–class dismissed."

The students filed out, no longer buzzing with awe but with a joint desperation to arrive home on time for the monologue, until only three individuals remained. As they had left, Castiel watched as Professor drew himself to full height, as though physically mustering up all the dignity he possessed, before giving his notes a quick, straightening shuffle and then cramming them into his briefcase. Although he clearly did not want to, and for a second, Castiel didn't think he would, he strode over to him, chin high in the air in the sort of majestic manner he usually saw on an indignant Audrey.

"Well, I, um… I think it's fairly plain to see that I, ah, did not expect that from you." Castiel remained silent, trying to wring his thoughts without cheating. Pleased he was not being complacent about it, he resumed, his composure now more intact. "You have … _beautifully_ … reconciled modern scientific judgments with theology. Just a faint reconciliation at its borders, but a reconciliation no less."

"So, what do you think?" asked a voice. Castiel looked over to find Audrey, leaning forward against his lectern, complacency etched all over her face on his behalf.

As though defeated in a friendly contest, Professor chuckled. "Me? I–I – after that, I'm not thinking at all." He smiled sheepishly as she laughed, before ushering them both to the exit.

* * *

The cab transported Professor away, Audrey waving at him as it pushed from the curb, his phone number in hand and promise for coffee at a later date in mind. Toying with the paper in her hands before tucking it away, she noticed his expression: pensive, but with a distant quality. It was as if his mind had traveled with that cab, returning to his body only when her arm tentatively touched his.

"Hey." He looked at her. "I'm sorry."

He studied her thoughtfully. "For what?"

Her lips smiled for his sake, but her eyes couldn't manage to. "You have one of those expressions on your face that warrants an apology." The corners of her lips drooped with guilt. "I shouldn't have pressured you into this, I shouldn't have sprung that on you the way I did. It's just that I see an old face and I get excited and – no, _no_, I shouldn't make excuses. I shouldn't have forced you to come."

"You didn't force me," he replied truthfully. "I wanted to be in your company. And I've come to admire your spontaneity."

Her smile was brilliantly sincere, and the nighttime didn't seem so dark anymore. "Thank you. And hey," she added with vivacity, "even if you feel intellectually defeated —"

"I was not defeated," he stated curtly.

"_Okay_," she rigidly retracted, "even if you feel intellectually _enervated_, I'm quite convinced that you proved yourself to be a worthy adversary. I don't think anyone expected that from you." His flattered ghost of a smile deflated to a frown, and it was apparently contagious. "What?"

"Is theology predominately regarded as the weaker contention?"

A pained look was promptly delivered to him. "Cas, I _thought_ we made it clear that this isn't a safe subject matter for us. You don't wanna hear my opinion —"

"That's not what I'm asking," he cornered.

"Maybe you're not gonna get my _opinion_, per se," she amended, blinking drolly, "but there's always gonna be a bias to my answer."

"I expect nothing less."

Her face scrunched up in a display of childlike reluctance, before soberly submitting to his question. "Yes, it is. Science is looked on more highly than religion, because in general, facts are more relied upon than faith – logic over suspension of logic, and all that." She angled her head the other way, recovering her original point. "Now, what I meant when I said that I didn't think that any of the students, or Professor, expected that from you —"

"What is _that?_" he inquired.

"I'm getting to _that_ – what I meant is that the way in which you presented your argument about religion and the suspension of logic, and the way you remotely deluded everyone into the sort of rational thinking that would unexpectedly lead them into a state of mind that held the little speck of faith they didn't know they had –" she took a huge, climactic breath, "– I have forgotten my point!"

"I imagine the forethought was to compliment me," he said, smirking faintly.

"Probably," she mussed her hair, confounded. Stiffly, she gestured forward, as though her point existed invisibly before her. "Yes. Yes, you, uh, did the above well." Pause. "Although… I think a lot of the instances you put forward were built on technicalities but – uh, that's giving my opinion; shut up, Audrey."

They basked in the humor of the moment, with him observing her with routine interest while she smiled humbly at the pavement. Almost coyly, she angled her head up to him.

"Hey, I have a question," she said, her ankle twiddling in what was undoubtedly a coy manner. "Why did you keep looking at me during the whole thing?" He looked at her as though mishearing, then into the distance. Now that he thought about it, he _did_ turn a glance on her on numerous occasions.

"To assure myself of your attention," he answered.

The coyness manifested itself again in a smile. "_Why?_"

"You are why I pursued the debate."

"Really? And it wasn't because he hurt your pride?"

"That was also a motive. And I'd sensed he wanted to…" his brow lowered very gravely, "… encourage your mentality to concur with his."

A melodramatic gasp. "Not my mentality!" She then tried to vie with his facial expression of gravity, but giggled demurely, negating all seriousness. "But it does," she resumed. "Well… actually I share his outlook but I don't passionately favor it to the point of dogmatism." When his expression made little change, she smiled, cuffing him lightly on the cheek. "What are you so pressed about, huh? It doesn't mean that I don't adore our little talks! I'm all ears for you because you have something different to offer. You'll always have me intellectually, Cas; I only have brains for you," she joked, smiling as she cupped his face and kissed his cheek.

As she pulled away, however, his mouth thieved hers in a ravenous manner that struck stark contrast to the chasteness of hers. Feeling her immediate resistance – lead by surprise, not aversion – his hands drifted to possessively cradle her head against his, aiming to make it impossible for her to deny herself him any longer, his hold relaxing only when she finally abandoned herself to him. Their lips worked desperately, as though impatient to achieve something long procrastinated, while her hands encompassed his head to deepen the kiss as his own desirously strayed into the depths of her hair.

Opening his eyes very briefly to catch her lips from another angle, that is when he saw the bus. It passed behind her, imprinted with a vast poster. It was her photo, of him, that she had taken the night they met, photoshopped to have the Statue of Liberty in place of the Rockefeller Christmas Tree, and bearing the words "Manhattan 2013: a _divine_ place to be! TOURISM AMERICA" in an imposing font.

She had whimpered against his lips when they stopped their urgent movements, opening her eyes to discern the problem. She followed his gaze over her shoulder, and then stiffened in his arms. Her gaze was not on him when she whirled back around, but instead was on the pavement, wide-eyed as though realizing she'd left the stove on. Then, as though he was the owner of the house she'd left the stove on in, she painfully leveled her eyes up at him, wincing when she found that his were already trained on her, in an expression of muted horror that demanded an explanation.

Offering a futile little smile, she spoke. "Uh, I can explain that."

* * *

I did the math and worked out approximately how many chapters I'd need to achieve this story's intended length. I wrote these twenty-nine chapters so far in ten months. I need to write another twenty or so in ten _weeks_. Oy. Ergo, here's me updating faster, so get them reviews in, because you know I'm an insatiable whore for them. :D

Read and review :)


	29. The Fame Monster

Dean glanced at the angel through the rear view mirror, then at his brother. _Someone_ had to say it.

"Soooo." His knowing drawl made Castiel bristle. "You're famous now?"

It all came to light about an hour ago. He and Sam were pursuing their separate routes within a local Detroit mall in order to reach the enemy before they could kill Dean. Castiel had waved a hand, a door unlocking and swinging open at his command, and had appeared on the site of what was _expected_ to be a habitual amount of bloodshed, accompanied by the standard sounds of fists impacting bodies. Instead, he had found… well, he had found this:

The enemy had an arm locked around Dean's neck but was not bothering to paralyze him; Dean wasn't even exploiting this absence of effort; Sam had a clear shot that would glance off a piece of metal and dispatch the enemy from behind, but he too was not taking advantage of the moment.

What all three of them had been focusing on, much to the angel's chagrin, was the poster imprinted on the broadest wall of the empty food court. Indeed, it was _his_ poster.

When he had entered, he garnered all eyes. Then it all went to hell. It begun as a light snorting by the enemy, before their combined amusement ripped open and surged of uproarious laughter.

Eventually, the situation had progressed in its usual manner. They all played their game of verbal badminton, the enemy let slip a few snide remarks about the brothers' miserable lives, before said enemy was then killed and disposed of properly. As they headed back for their motel, Castiel occupied the back seat of the Impala, painfully anticipating the question or remark that was to inevitably transpire at any minute. And when it did, he had of course bristled.

"Now, I'm not much of a Bowie fan," Dean went on, audibly grinning as he switched cassettes, "too showy for my taste – but I think this song has never been more relevant."

Sam shook his head with helpless amusement as _"Fame"_ by David Bowie began to fill the quiet. Dean kept throwing glances into the rear view mirror, awaiting some sort of reaction.

It was already one remark too many. So, Castiel informed them about his situation. Once it was all out in the open, and as they ambled into their motel room, Dean was predictably first to comment.

"I guess it's safe to say that she's ruined your life," he decided, making a beeline for the bathroom.

"I think you're blowing it out of proportion," Sam said carefully, locking the door and casting aside his duffel bag. "First of all, it's a photo, not a video. And it's not like it's a frontal photo either." He turned to him, aiming to look helpful. "Only people who really know you would recognize you. And even still, you'd have to point it out to them. Jimmy's wife _might_ get weird feelings from looking at it, but nothing can prove it's you, not really. You're just some guy in a trench coat with some coincidental wings, staring at…" He frowned, inwardly recalling the photo. "Wait, so they edited out the tree?"

A tired look of exasperation was aimed his way. The absence of the tree was the least of his concerns.

"Are you mad at her?" Dean asked from the bathroom, not even bothering to close the door as he, you know.

"No," Castiel replied, frowning as he wondered why that was. "I'm just finding this all to be … immensely bizarre." He stared down at the floor. The image, seared into his subconscious, was now being projected onto the carpet by memory, like a black dot impeding his vision that would not recede. One detail of his situation tasted especially bitter. "This … tourism campaign … is _global._"

Sam's smile tightened sympathetically, while Dean's laugh reverberated in the bathroom. "And that, Cas, is why it's so funny!"

* * *

He knocked on the _Haus of the Über Elitist_'s backroom doors, which opened after a momentary wait by Audrey._  
_

"You sent me a message, requesting my presence?" he prompted, allowing her to herd him into the backroom. Once inside, only then did he notice her squirrelly demeanor, which, he had to grant, was virtually her regular demeanor sans a smile. She seemed so wound up she couldn't even relax those hands that insisted on being in the air.

After drawing in a mighty gulp of air, she spoke. "Okay, remember how I sold that photo of you for stock and publication?"

At that instant, the FedEx guy moseyed into the room, clipboard in hand.

"Where do you want this?" he asked gruffly, pointing a thumb at the framed poster his men were handling in. Alas, it was _his_ poster, making its rounds. It was haunting him! _He_ was haunting _himself!_

Audrey, who was blushing like a radish, removed one of her hands, which had moved to cradle her face in chagrin, to signal an empty spot in the room. The men followed her direction. Both hands on her face again, she peered at Castiel.

"How could I forget," he replied flatly.

"Well… it's become a bit of a … _thing_," she mumbled cryptically, eyes darting.

The way her tone drooped in dismay with the last word was not at all promising. Eyes narrowed, he took an ominous step forward, to which she took a step away from.

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"I don't know!" she cried frantically. "_It's_ – the photo, the composition of the text, the font, the colors, the angle –" She fizzled out into sputtering sounds of inarticulacy. "It's sorta become a sensation!"

"Sensation?"

"Yeah! You know, a fad! A trend!" she fluttered her hands emphatically. "It's gone viral! I mean, it's turned into an internet meme! And, and, andandand Leno mentioned it in his monologue last night, and it was in Letterman's Top Ten list too, and, and, and they even parodied it on Saturday Night Live!" She squeaked out something between a giggle and sob, as though she found this to be tragically hilarious. In deference to him, she clamped a hand over her mouth and contained the rest of that reaction.

The FedEx guy and his men passed them to exit with a generic nod, but all stopped when they scrutinized Castiel. A smirk emerged on the man's face for the first time since entering the room.

"Heeey, this joe looks like —"

"ALRIGHT, THANK YOU, GOODBYE!" yelled Audrey, flailing in what was meant to be a shooing motion until they left. She leaned against the closed doors, recouping her breath and state of mind. When collected, she turned to him, eyes pleading. "I am _so_ sorry! I had no idea this would happen! Like I said, I sold the photo, thinking that, at most, someone might buy it for a corporate presentation or something." She hacked out a laugh that lacked all humor, as though it could decline into a sob at any moment. "I had no idea that the friggin' state of New York would purchase it to promote the city!"

Her mouth opened to apologize again, but it seemed to pain her to look at him as she derived disappointment from his impassive stare. Pressing the balls of her hands to her eyes, she fell back into a waiting desk chair with a ragged moan. He watched her curiously, wondering if she was going to cry. Rarely had he seen her many shades far from cheerful.

"Jeepers –" she lifted her head abruptly, something dawning, "– to think of the profit I would've made." This line of thinking appeared to please her. "Yeah!" She shot from her seat, marching right up to him. "You know, I'm just as much of a victim as you! I could have been famous – an esteemed photographer! Up there with Annie Leibovitz and Anne Geddes!" Her eyes gleamed greedily. "And I could have been rich!" Her brow furrowed, all movements stilling. "_Richer._" And then they began again. "But still!" Her gaze, now gapingly feverish, flew to him. "So _you_, mister, can _not_ be mad at me!" She poked him in the chest, "BOO TO YOUR INDIGNATION!" and another poke, "BOO, I SAY!" She raised her fists and began shifting her weight combatively. "Do you wanna fight? Am I making you mad? Do you wanna clobber me? Do you wanna pull my hair? You could try! I fight pretty well for a white girl! COME ON, LET'S GO!"

It took some effort to decide how to respond to that, manifesting eventually in the form of a smile, all the while inwardly recognizing that rare, tingling urge to actually laugh. She was just _so_ delirious.

She threw a punch. He caught her hand. She threw another, he caught her again. Clarity dawned, and her face of bravado broke and she concealed her eyes again. "AARGH! I am _losing_ it!"

"I'm not mad," he finally said.

Her hands dropped. "Really?" A hopeful smile tentatively surfaced. "How are you _not?_ Look," she swept past him, obtaining her purse and rummaging through it, "can I offer you a check? You're entitled to some form of revenue —"

"No, that is not necessary," he shook his head, but she was already scribbling in her checkbook.

"Cas, you can't reject this. Justin Bieber dressed up like you in his new video, so I owe you big." Tearing the check from its spine, she held it out to him. "And even still, this isn't enough."

Despite his spoken refusal, he took the check. "Audrey, I insist you don't —" He read the number. An idea emerged. "Very well," he accepted, tucking it away for later as she carried on with her fluster.

"What was I _thinking?_" she grated vehemently, raking her fingers through her hair. "I _never_ do that to people!" she chided herself. "I _always_ ask permission first!"

"Is there a reason why you failed to?" he asked, not at all cross but merely curious.

Her regard fired straight to him, eager to pounce on any chance to justify herself. "Because the next day, remember? I was getting photos developed and submitted? I developed one copy for you, and one for my portfolio…" A hesitant smile crept to appearance. "But then I figured it was just too pretty _not_ to submit! And I think I was _planning_ to ask you that night I presented it to you, even though I'd already submitted it and I completely forgot to tell you that I did —" She stopped, short of words to aid her fruitless rationalization, her feverish eyes stilling on him. "HOW ARE YOU _NOT_ MAD?"

"I don't know," he replied evenly. There was a long pause as her turbulent thoughts gradually achieved a calm.

"Well," she mumbled, exhausted, "thank you for not being mad." She moved to pace around, but found she was too exhausted to do that too. "I'm getting out of this one really lucky," she muttered reverently. She peered up at him. "You actually have a strong case against me, you know?" Then, her eyes narrowed. "You're not pretending to not be mad to get this information out of me, are you?"

"No."

She drew closer, eyes narrowing even further as her tone weighed with suspicion. "You could be lying."

"I'm not."

Once she was close enough to make her following question relevant, an arch smile traced her lips as she asked, "Why did you kiss me?"

He blinked down at her in surprise, but quickly deflated. "Why did you reciprocate after renouncing me?"

Her lips pursed, dreading but expecting that question. "Because at that moment," she began, her tone suggesting she was resigned to this reality, "I didn't feel anything wrong about it."

Had the universe released her? Had the universe been intervening in the first place? It didn't matter anymore. She was fully uninhibited now. They _both_ were.

"What does that signify?" he asked lowly. He watched the roguishness seep back into her eyes as her mouth curled up in one corner.

"It means —" She yanked him by the tie and forcibly sent him backwards into the leather desk chair. "– that I am now fully willing —" She hopped on to straddle him. "– to have some fun."

Her lips took his by surprise, momentarily, before they grew mutually frantic in the occurrence of his ambitious response. All he became aware of were her lips on his and those demanding hands of hers; that is, until he was keenly introduced to her equally demanding tongue. He had never grasped the appeal of this kind of contact until now. There certainly was something strangely stimulating about having that added intrusion. Especially, as he was growing to quickly appreciate, when that intrusion moved with such sensual skill. Glide, push, swivel, withdraw. She knew how to coax.

Breath escaped her prematurely, so he detached his lips from hers, both allowing her a breath and securing the upper hand. Just as quickly as they had parted, their lips touched again, trifling with her as his teased and beckoned, never allowing her full attainment. He felt the tug to smile when she grew impatient to his baiting, thumping her fists on his shoulders petulantly until he obliged her.

His hands worked their way down her back of their own accord, but flew to grasp the armrest out of reflex when she pushed against the chair, sending it cruising backwards until it impacted a wall. Her mouth descended to his again, and his whole body jerked when her hand found itself in … an interesting place. He felt her blindly feeling around for the door knob with the intention to lock them in, and he pondered his fate for when that happened. Unfortunately, she wasn't fast enough, and the door opened towards them, temporarily concealing them from the guest until the door swung back to shut.

Jody gave them one look of tired indifference before furthering into the room with sigh. Audrey was still straddling him and his mouth was still on hers, both otherwise motionless, and their eyes monitored Jody as she foraged the room, the chair squeaking comically as it swiveled slowly to follow her movement.

"Audrey, sweetheart, I thought you were resolving it with a cash settlement, not an erotic arrangement," she said, vaguely irritated at either them or having yet to find what she was looking for. "Either both of you _"get yours"_ now –" she delivered to him a pitying look up from the papers she was perusing, "– which would imply terrible, _terrible_ things about your sexual potency –" gaze falling back to the papers, she thrust an arm in the direction of the door she had just emerged from, "– or Audrey, scoot your little tuchus out there and help these schmucks!"

"You _do_ remember that I don't even work here?" she reminded, twisting around in the seat to sit on his lap. "Not really."

Jody cast her a sideways scowl before flouncing right up to them. "Listen galy," she thumped the handful of paper on Audrey's head, "if you don't go out there right now, I'm telling _Elphaba_ here —"

"Elphaba?"

"Yeah." She angled aside to direct a smirk to Castiel. "'Cause your hair is _Defying Gravity_!"

Audrey smiled blandly. "How long have you been waiting to say that?"

"Since we'd met. Now, as I was saying, if you, honey, do not go out there right now and help Nicky explain to some putz the very clear difference between a seven inch and twelve inch record – a greasy fella who Nicky fears bodes serious risk to his immaculate pores – so help me, I will tell him your middle name."

Castiel felt her seize up completely. Without even turning to him, she scampered out of the room like a frightened mouse. "Bye Cas."

They were left alone, him looking wholly irrelevant in this place without Audrey around, and Jody began to smirk at him. She listed in his direction, and whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

"It's James."

* * *

Although he expected it when he appeared in their motel room, he couldn't help but bridle at the taunts, mostly by Dean. Actually, _only_ by Dean. Sam was contributing simply by allowing it to happen.

"Hey there, Lord Liberty!"

"Dean —"

"Mister Manhattan."

"I need to talk to you —"

"Nicholas Knickerbocker of the New York Knicks."

"I will give you ten thousand dollars if you never speak of this again."

Silence. Any impulse to laugh in disbelief was curbed the instant Castiel held out the check. Sam, who had been silently watching from his post at his laptop, promptly stood up and moved next to his brother, both their eyes widening in unison as they discerned the authenticity of it. Finally, in a brisk manner born of shock, Dean took it from the angel's hand and eyeballed it narrowly.

"Okay, seriously – where, how and why?"

"Audrey expressed guilt for what she did, and insisted that I am entitled to it." Then, with some reluctance, "Especially, since it's become … marketable."

"Marketable?" Sam echoed, confused.

For a few seconds, there was silence among them, and filling it was a sound that had eluded their ears until now. It was music coming from the television, to which they all turned their attention to.

A certain Canadian teen heartthrob with his poor excuse for a hairstyle appeared on screen, garbed in Castiel's exact wardrobe, save for the black Converse sneakers, leading his back-up dancers in the choreography, who dressed similarly but with Wayfarer sunglasses (which was absurd, because it was nighttime) and black fedoras. Somewhere in the world, lesbians were fainting.

"_Baby, don't chu know you're fine? Tell me that chu will be mine! Hit me up, this city's gonna flock to us, 'cause we're livin' life so divine! Oh! New York City, New_–_New_–_New York City _—"

An awkward silence had never seemed more appealing to a slack-jawed Castiel as he watched Dean stumble all over the place with laughter, while Sam, who laughed initially, was now struggling in vain to get rid of the amusement on his face. The angel fixed the elder Winchester with a withering look.

"Dean. Ten thousand dollars," he reminded sharply.

Dean's grin was willfully unhelpful. "Six pack of beer? Seven dollars. Four new tires for my car? Four hundred dollars. Taunting an angel and his fifteen minutes of fame? _Priceless_." He wallowed in his own wit for a moment, before flicking a finger against the check and pocketing it. "But I'll take your money anyway."

With a resigned sigh, the angel vanished from the room without further word.

"You're such a bully," Sam muttered, smiling as he returned to his laptop.

"Part of my charm," Dean sighed, as though finding it exhausting. After a sip of beer, he nodded towards the laptop. "Find anything?"

"Not sure, what do you think of this – muffins that make people inflate like balloons."

Pause. "Don't all muffins do that, if you eat enough of them?"

He ignored the stupid question that was obviously, _hopefully_ a joke. "Says here that Oprah actually ate one a couple of weeks ago on air while she was interviewing Gordon Ramsay, and had to be literally rolled off the stage. And this homeless woman gave a statement – here, come watch this."

Pressing play, they watched as the Cat Lady made incoherent caveman-like noises to the camera. Apparently it made sense to a translator out there since she was given English subtitles.

"Some guy in a Starbucks uniform came up to me and offered me the day's surplus of muffins, to which I obviously accepted. I let my cats enjoy them first and before I knew it, they were the shape of beach balls, rolling down the _*censored*_ street!"

When guerrilla footage of just that appeared, Dean snorted with laughter. "They're like furry little tumbleweeds." He twirled his beer bottle thoughtfully. "Has anyone actually gotten hurt from this?"

"It says here the effect is not fatal or painful, but could lead to dangerous situations. One guy actually _did_ die after eating the muffin on a high rise construction property, and he rolled right off the edge, falling two hundred and fifty feet."

"Damn."

"So what do you think?" Sam queried, stretching back on the chair. "I'm thinking witchcraft here." Something catching his eye, he briskly hunched forward again. "Oh, and it also says here that similar cases have occurred with cupcakes, quiches, cookies, tarts and pies."

The bottle twirling stopped. "Pies? _We're in,_" he tipped the bottle in approval.

Sam frowned at first, but then smiled wanly. "You know this means you can't eat any of them, right?"

Dean fixed him with his most profound of looks. "You can still appreciate a good pie with your nose, Sammy. Where is this case?"

After a quick scan, Sam nodded back with surprise. "Huh." Smiling a little, he looked to Dean, who prompted him with expectant look. "Manhattan, New York."

* * *

I recently read a spoiler that Mark Sheppard (Crowley) is going to guest star on Doctor Who. OMFG. Shaking and crying.

BTW, to Leila, one of my many lovely unregistered reviewers: yes, there was a Mean Girls reference in the last chapter. My best friend and I quote that line all the time. ALL THE TIME.

Read and review :D


	30. Hell's Kitchen

_"Greetings, strangers._

_Don't get mugged now._

_I know a place_  
_Where the grass is always peed on_  
_Worn but in style_  
_Let's hope you're ready for the slaughter_  
_Sex and drug abuse_  
_Not to mention all the STD's_  
_(Oh and!) The noise_  
_As you'd guess_  
_Will drive you out within a week (Uh huh!)_

_You could travel the world_  
_But nothing comes close_  
_To the cold East Coast_  
_You'll be causing a fuss_  
_You've been mugged here enough_

_New York City, I_  
_think you're regrettable_  
_Slipped on puke_  
_At the subway stop_  
_Got mugged for_  
_some drugs_  
_I'm left with one nickel_

_New York City, you're_  
_so unreliable_  
_Racketeers_  
_on Wall Street non-stop_  
_Crooked coppers yell_  
_"NOW PUT YOUR HANDS UP!"_"

"Well I'll be. Andy Samberg can really get down in that trench coat of yours. Shame he can't quite hit those high notes, huh?" Gabriel commented, sitting with Castiel in the farthest booth of Starbucks, empty save for his colleagues who he reassured were just figments of his own creation – which explained how they could speak so openly about supernatural concerns without reservation – watching his very own Saturday Night Live parody on the television. He threw him a sly smile. "And you know, this spoof actually makes me like that crappy Katy Perry song, so that'll do, Cas. That'll do."

Although Castiel's eyes were leveled on the television, where his imitator was earning laughs by writhing against a lamppost, he wasn't watching. All presence of mind had escaped him to dwell on something else. Becoming aware that Gabriel was moving from his seat ("Yech. Weekend Update sucks, I'm not watchin' this."), he divulged his thoughts.

"I sense she desires to lay with me."

Gabriel froze, but quickly recovered with a look of mock pity. "Aw. Having a pretty girl lusting after your loins." He tutted. "How unfortunate for you." He dropped the sarcasm. "So tell me, what lead you to such a presumptuous presumption?"

At this, Castiel glanced aside, privately recalling the peculiar little moment that ensued a few days ago, which had charmed the better part of his thoughts since.

* * *

They were in the toy department of Macy's, and he had been bulldozed into her pursuit to find a birthday gift for Nicky, even though he was indeed turning twenty seven. And the special type of toy on _his_ wishlist most certainly would not be found in _this_ department, let alone Macy's. Setting was unimportant anyway. His mind was so far-flung from reality he could barely register what she was currently saying to him. Not with those lips. And the brilliant tongue that resided behind them, presently all work and no play. Not yet at least.

Kissing was… interesting. Not in the same way he found with their discussions, but it was something worth exploring every time. In all senses – physically, in particular. So far, she had been the one to slip the tongue. Slipping the tongue earned first place, the gold medal, the whip hand, the trump card. _He_ wanted it for a change, just to see what it's like. So, feeling decidedly experimental…

"The Tickle Me Elmos vibrate, right? Maybe Nicky will find some use with thi—_mmmf!_"

Cupping her face, he kissed her briefly before dancing his tongue inquiringly across the seam of her lips and then pushing into her mouth. It all startled her so much that her arm reflexively whipped out to find purchase on the shelves behind her, knocking over a few toys on the highest ledge in doing so. In a blink of an eye, he had detached from her and effortlessly caught all three of them.

She stared at him, dumbstruck. What left her mouth was not an apology, not even an "Oops!".

"You have really good reflexes."

He tilted his head and frowned, not expecting that but not abhorring it either. "Thank you."

As he turned to put the Mr. Potato Head and Woody doll back in their places, she continued to stare, starry-eyed.

"I'm a lucky girl." He turned to look at her quizzically, yet already knew what was implied on some vague level. At his regard, her focus revived and she turned away, blushing. "Come along, then."

She cast him a flirty look over her shoulder as she sashayed away, and the wings of the Buzz Lightyear figure in his hands promptly sprung up.

* * *

Gabriel, who had been left behind in the drab present to watch Castiel travel miles away without him to the glorious Land of Provocative Thought, intervened with a snap of his fingers.

"Hellooo?"

Instantly, he snapped to focus. "How can I be certain of what she wants?"

He stroked his imaginary beard. "A little mind breaking and entering couldn't hurt. She'll never even know!"

"No," he rebuffed without a beat, "I wish to avoid that breach of privacy." A smirk and arched eyebrow arose, Gabriel challenging the truth of that, but it seemed he was being let off the hook this time.

Knowing Castiel would follow, he sauntered to the front counters as he attended to the question. "If she wants you inside of her, she'll find reasons to touch you, her tongue will be deliberately more visible than usual, she'll laugh at anything, she'll lean into you, stare at certain parts of your body with a curious level of interest, drop one Freudian slip after the other, she'll have that come-hither look in her eyes, yada yada blah blah and all that jazz…" He looked remarkably flippant when he whirled back around, finding Castiel nodding away mental notes with the intensity of a diligent student.

"And then there's the whole "I need help with something inside" shtick," he added, with such apathy he may as well have been inspecting his nails. Castiel's head tilt compelled him to elaborate.

"Oh, you know," he flourished a hand frivolously, "the broad cooks up some half-baked story like, uh, "I think my dishwasher's broken; think you could come up and take a look at it for me?", or "The light in my fridge is flickering, do you wanna come in and check it out?", or the not so subtle "I'm arranging my room and I need help positioning the bed; you think you could assist me with that?"" He made a wry face. "If you ask me, in some way, they're shooting themselves in the foot by pulling that gimmick because it only encourages the belief that women rely on men to do everything." He raised his palms defensively and teetered around the counter. "But hey! If it leads to a lay and a raise in virility as a whole, you better believe _I_ ain't complainin'."

His gaze became cautioning as he raised a finger, withholding attention for an additional moment. "Ooh and, here's a word of warning from your brother Gabe: if you don't butter up that muffin real fast, she's gonna peruse other joints to glut her hunger."

Frown. "What do you mean?"

With a tight smile, he pitied his brother. "A non-virgin would giggle at my metaphor," he sighed. "Let me put it this way for your virgin ears: your –" he paused, momentarily lost for the word before deciding on one with a smirk, "– let's face it – _girlfriend_, is a sexually liberated young woman in Manhattan. She thrives on sexual energy. If and when she doesn't have a creative outlet to dispense said energy, where do you think it goes?" He fixed him with a meaningful glance. "_It goes to you._ So the question is, are you prepared for that? 'Cause you better be."

With a profound air, he straightened upright. "_I_ get the impression that she is the type of girl who knows her own sexuality and will use it against you, and all her efforts will fly right over your head. One moment she's standing next to you, innocently showing you how to make a banana daiquiri," his tone suddenly darkened, "next moment you're very conscious of the way she's pressed up against you, breathing your air as she tells you the instructions, of which all translate suggestively in your head. She makes you _think_ you're thinking that way _because_ you want it, when really she's planting the idea in your mind with her sensuality." Another thing hit him, inspiring a grin. "Erotic Inception!" he proudly dubbed. Then, to himself, like an afterthought, "That would be one helluva sequel…"

Castiel frowned further, reluctant to comprehend all this. "I think you're wrong about her."

"Fine! Prepare to be surprised. You just keep doing what you're doing and she _might,_ she just _might_ go off and…" he paused meaningfully as he winked, "… slip into something more comfortable." The wicked smirk vanished as his entire expression deadpanned. "Like a coma." Castiel simply blinked wearily at him before eagerly resuming his journey to the Land of Provocative Thought.

There was silence for a while, the discussion apparently ending, before Gabriel poked his head around the farthest side of the counter. "You wanna hear something funny?"

Although a disinterested look was droned his way, he told him anyway.

"A little birdie told me where most of the demons in New York live!" He flashed a very exaggerated smile as though it would prompt Castiel's excitement. Naturally, it sparked the opposite.

After frozen for a moment, he stormed over to his brother, scowling. "Demons are _not_ a laughing matter."

Gabriel's face deadpanned completely as he folded his arms on the counter. "Alright, I gotta know: _what is?_ Either you have a really pretentious sense of humor… or none at all." Castiel did not respond, and his uncompromising glare only inspired a mirthful grin to emerge in response. "See, this is what I like about demons. They actually _have_ a sense of humor! Angels are so… _dull_. With the exception of _moi_, of course. And maybe Uriel. Could be 'cause we're both dicks to some extent … dicks, demons," he teetered his head, weighing the words. "This is also why humans are so entertaining – they have a bit of both in them. Angels and demons, I mean. Though I guess you could say a dick could be _insi_ — let's not go there."

His rambling did not shake Castiel's tenacity. "Tell me where they are at once," he commanded.

"_Why?_ So you can go and smite them? Huh? And let you have all the fun?"

"You offered to tell."

"I offered to tell you something funny," he knowingly cornered, "not something you could use."

"_Tell me_," he ground out.

Slowly, Gabriel leaned forward furtively. "Okay. Here we go. The demons in New York –" A quick, heedful scan of the empty room, "– live in _Hell's Kitchen!_"

His scowl waned into his typical confused frown. "Hell's Kitchen…" he echoed to himself, the words still not clarifying. "What are you talking about?"

"It's a neighborhood in Manhattan. Nice place, far better than it used to be." He frowned when Castiel moved for the back exit. _"Where are you going?"_ he growled, all levity vanishing from his voice.

"To carry out my duties."

"The hell you are!" When this did not halt the angel, he picked up the nearest thing he could find from his side of the counter and threw it at him, which happened to be one of his cursed muffins. It bounced right off the angel's head, but succeeded in drawing his full attention. "You, sir, are acting of your own volition! And didn't I tell you not to?"

"The bidding was to restore order on earth," Castiel argued, storming right back to the counter.

"Uh huh, and in _what_ way does that translate to "exorcise demons left and right"?"

"I was unaware of the disadvantage in doing so," he countered, his tone dryly sarcastic.

"But there _is_ a risk! They're harmless, honestly! They're like tamed serpents, I tell you! Sure, they still possess the poison, but they'll only attack if provoked!" As he was still unconvinced, Gabriel snapped his fingers, eyes alighting with an idea. "Know what? Know what? I'll prove it to you!" Fingers in his mouth, he blew out a whistle. A beautiful brunette with long, sensual curls and eyes to enhance emerged from the staff only doors, strutting to them wearing what was probably an intentionally indecent version of the Starbucks uniform. "Castiel. I'd like you to meet Brandi, with an 'i'."

He studied her with unmoved curiosity. She didn't seem the type one would extend their hand to as much as she was just a figure made to stand around and look attractive.

"She's a _demon_."

His fixed gaze became aghast and she smiled, glad to be the cause of it. "Gabriel! What is the meaning of this?"

"And we're doing it."

Gabriel and Brandi proceeded to share the most graphic, open-mouthed, tongue-prominent kiss; an image that was to brand itself in Castiel's subconscious and replay periodically like a Nam flashback.

"This – is – _abominable!_" he snarled, succeeding in prying them apart without having to make contact.

"Don't be such a Debbie Downer," he laughed dismissively, "it's two weeks into 2013! Get with the times!"

"This situation is _not_ comparable to the racial integration of the mid-twentieth century. This is a case of two sides of a spectrum that are _never_ supposed to touch – save your insolence, I'm aware of my choice of words," he added curtly in the appearance of Gabriel's smirk. "How forbidden and consequently exciting you find this affair to be is inconsequential. The bottom line is that it's wrong." He straightened up his spine. "I'm leaving to see to those demons immediately," he stated with an authoritative air, moving for the back exit, "I strongly suggest you wise up and do the same with yours."

"Don't do this, Castiel," Gabriel intoned, the strain in his deceptively playful voice suggesting his patience was near breaking point. He stalked him into the backroom, Brandi obediently following. "No!" he ruptured finally, "No, _ohhh_, I didn't want it to come to this, I really didn't, but I am _blackmailing_ you!"

Castiel stopped. The foulest glare was seen on his face when he turned to them. "With what?" he sneered.

"With _this!_" And suddenly, he was staring not at Gabriel, but at a clone of himself. Castiel 2.0 glowed of Gabriel's undying bravado, underlined by the habitual smirk he wore. He wagged his eyebrows.

He imposed his duplicate with a withering look. "That… is despicable."

"That! Is despicable!" Gabriel mocked, testing Castiel's voice. "Hey, you know, we could go up to Little Red, or any girl for that matter, and say we're twins." He winked. "Some people get off from that."

Castiel's scowl grew petulant. "This is unfair. I cannot go against the allegiance I've made to our Father."

"Ah-ah!" Gabriel nixed with a point of his finger. "You said so yourself, His bidding was for you to maintain order on earth! Nowhere does that imply that you absolutely _must_ expel demons to achieve this. If they were to attack, by all means, dispose of them at your leisure." He glanced at Brandi, who barely responded to anything. "Sorry dollface." Back to Castiel. "You demand order, but it's already here. Don't go thinking that I'm _trying_ to sway you from your day job, 'cause that's not what's happening here. I'm just sayin': don't try to fix things that ain't broke."

Castiel looked helplessly conflicted. A smirk blossomed on Gabriel's – er, Castiel 2.0's face when he spotted something out the staff door's circular window.

"And if _that_ little speech didn't seal the deal," he sing-sang, his tone discouragingly mischievous, "guess who just walked in."

Castiel moved to stand next to him and peered out. It was Audrey. Realizing what he'd meant, he narrowed his eyes at him. "_No_."

His duplicate beamed diabolically. "Oh yes."

Gabriel reached for the door handle, only to be swiftly gripped by Castiel. "Don't you dare!"

Castiel 2.0 knitted his brows theatrically. "Do you solemnly swear you are _not _not up to no good?"

"What? Gabriel, don't —"

"Time is of the essence," he tapped the nonexistent watch at his wrist, "and it's _up!_" Wrenching his hand away, Gabriel moseyed right on out the door, a playful sway in his step.

"Gabriel! I urge you to stop this!" Castiel hissed from his side of the door, gripping it so hard he was making fresh scratches. Heaven help him – he could _not_ watch!

* * *

Tongue friskily poking out of the side of his mouth, Gabriel approached an unsuspecting Audrey, granting her a shameless once-over. "Howdy sweetness."

"Oh, hey!" she smiled, speaking through a lollipop in her mouth. "We fortuitously meet again."

"Yeah!" Gabriel, ever the sweet tooth, plucked the confectionery from her mouth, slipping it into his own. "Speaking of meetings, I think we're long overdue for _another_ type of meeting, you feel me?"

She peered at him very studiously for a moment, belatedly perceiving the odd behavior. "What?"

"Y'know what I'm talkin' 'bout," his voice simmered to a seductive purr, putting on a sexy face while inwardly sniggering at what it may look like. "Do a little dance, make a little love, get down tonight?"

It was then that a waiter, Brandi, burst from the staff only doors as though against her own will and staggered towards Gabriel. Audrey's eyes darted between them as she whispered something in his ear, until a smile stretched across his face.

"Thanks, kitten," he nodded, dismissing her with a charming grin.

"What was _tha_ —" He shushed Audrey by returning her lollipop into her open mouth.

"I'll be two seconds, child —"

"_Child?_"

With a click of his tongue with a lecherous wink, he flustered her one last time before spinning at his heel and swaggering away.

"Wait, Cas, what are you – hey, you can't go in there, that's staff only!"

* * *

"Is it hot in here," Gabriel hollered, still bearing Castiel's visage as he entered the backroom, arms outstretched in triumph, "or is it just _me?_" He found him in the corner of the room, looking violated. "Having said that, I warmed her up real nice for you. Now, time for serious business." He folded his arms and adopted what was intended to be a mockery of Castiel's solemn scowl. "Do you promise not to go to Hell's Kitchen and wreak devastation on the demonic race? I want to hear you say it with those words."

"I promise not to go to Hell's Kitchen and wreak devastation on the demonic race," Castiel recited flatly.

"And you know if you break that promise, Little Red'll be encountering two _very different_ Castiels. So unless your lady friend's into some seriously kinky stuff, I think it's safe to assume that she wouldn't be too thrilled about that. And you also know you can't keep an eye on me all the time."

"Yes, I know. You have my word," he grudgingly muttered. Gabriel stared at him with humorless eyes, either weighing the sincerity of that response or aiming straight for the mind. If he had intentions to penetrate Castiel's mind for the truth, he would have let him. Eventually, he raised his chin graciously, content with what he'd heard, and reassumed his usual self.

"I'll see that you keep that promise, Castiel." Then, the gleeful gleam returning in his eyes, he motioned the door with a grin. "Now go! Go play!"

* * *

He really didn't want to face her after that. There was the possibility that whatever he said would sound most disproportionate to whatever hot damn mess Gabriel had left in his wake.

After being virtually kicked out of the backroom like a sack of rubbish, he drew in a dignified air and advanced toward her. Already, he saw that she had caught sight of him from the corners of her eyes, but played at being wholly meticulous about the way she stirred her coffee. Once at her side, his initial intention to open with a greeting was forgone, and instead, he voiced exactly what he thought.

"What did I say?" he asked warily, not knowing if wanted to know the answer.

Practically heaving the plastic stirrer into her drink, she resounded in disbelief, "What did you _say?_" She turned to direct her words straight to his face, and it was then that she began to … _smile?_

"You propositioned me!"

He _knew_ he didn't want to know the answer. His eyes swept up to the ceiling and trained an intensity towards it, his substitute for glaring directly at Gabriel.

"Of course I did," he grumbled discreetly to himself. His expression skewed with chagrin when it sunk back to her. "Please think nothing of it, I didn't mean it." He stopped, contemplating his words, before adding, "That's not to say that there's anything wrong with you." Unthinkingly, his eyes raked all over her. "There is … most _definitely_ nothing wrong with you," he said lamely. "You are a very desirable young woman and naturally I would want to." He considered his words. "Not that I do." And considered them again. "Not that I don't." His mind offered nothing but static. "Uh —"

"I'm," she began, stalling him with a gloved finger to his lips, "going to give you the very, very," she took a deep breath, "_very_ generous benefit of the doubt."

Unable to comprehend either his immense luck or her immense lack of sense, he stared at her. "You are unbelievable." Even he was unsure if he meant that with a positive or negative tenor.

She was noticeably wavering as to how to take that, before smiling. "Thank you."

So she took it as a compliment. A part of him reasoned against it. "That … wasn't quite a compliment," he said awkwardly.

She blinked owlishly at him, truly at a loss with what to do with him. "You are … a very mystifying," her perturbed expression grew oddly affectionate, "but lucky man, Castiel."

That he was. In fact, he was so taken aback by his own luck (or again, her complete lack of sense) that he was unprepared for her lips being sweetly pressed to his. He was close to responding when she pulled away. But only slightly. Right away, it became apparent to him that she had intended to pull away completely and leave … but something was pinning her right there.

"Is something wrong?" he inquired lowly, staring down at her, not minding the proximity at all.

It was as though she failed to hear him for a heated moment. Then, she caught herself in this abandonment, blushing at whatever thoughts that had flitted through her mind as she staggered away.

"Uh-hum, n–nothing! Just, um…" The most concupiscent smile peeked to surface, "… my imagination running off somewhat."

As she granted him a stomach curling smile, she thumbed down his mouth and slipped the lollipop inside (which, to be frank, was rather gross, bearing in mind it's been in Gabriel's mouth too). Mouthing a coquettish little goodbye, she turned and left, and his gaze lowered on her form to indeed watch _all_ of her walk away. Earth existence had never been more pleasant. Then reality dawned.

Castiel turned around to Gabriel, who was watching not-so-discreetly from the staff doors. Pointing at him accusingly with the lollipop, he said one word.

"You."

Gabriel's eyes flew open comically, looking over his shoulder at Brandi as he jolted to flee. "RUN!"

* * *

If it wasn't obvious, the opening parody song goes to the tune of Katy Perry's "California Gurls". BTW, nu-Castiel is dead to me. Hate the new costume. Hate the lack of James Dean-esque hair. In my story, the season four/five wardrobe and season four hairstyle prevails. Nu-Castiel can die in a fire. Unless the new costume I saw was just for the one photoshoot. In which case this rant is irrelevant.

Read and review :D


	31. Peeping Tom

Castiel was bleeding out of his side. The more generous the wound, the more time it needed to heal, and this wound had been granted with the utmost generosity only a hellhound could provide.

Two things in this world had the potential to inhibit the angel, and one of them was smoke. Smoke didn't inspire pain, as he was blessedly deprived of such faculties (for the most part), but even the eyes of his human vessel couldn't pierce through the airborne debris of the flaming skyscraper he had narrowly escaped being flattened by. He had turned to both watch the structure collapse and the dark spirits violently expel into the dimming sky when it lunged for him, helping itself to a generous bite of angel meat, which wasn't as sexy as it sounded.

He was shaken, slightly, when it happened, as though a strike of thunder had startled him, while the hunters nearby surveyed him in his gory glory in horror. Evidently, they had skill, but not much visual experience in battlefield carnage. He didn't feel anything but mildly exposed, glancing down at his fresh lack of self on his right side with a sort of "Hm, that's gonna leave a stain" kind of irritation, before lending his ears with the others to the sound of that very hellhound howling in anguish, protesting the blood of an angel. Eventually, but not before having to prompt the hunters with a meaningful look, they trailed the wake of his own blood that the hellhound was leaving behind and disposed of the creature themselves.

The Joelma Building of São Paulo, Brazil was no more. A loss to the community, of course, but no longer a breeding ground for spirits on the warpath. To go from such a formidable, shocking and – one could say – _epic_ scene, to the stillness of Central Park was dramatic. And incautious, to say the least, as he was still dripping blood onto the grass like an unreliable faucet. Though it had been quite a while since the initial wounding and he was ninety-eight percent healed, the position of the wound enabled the blood to run rampant regardless.

The area of the Park he had landed in was empty, save for himself, a vagabond who had passed out in the flower hedges, and the _other_ thing in the world that held the potential to inhibit him: Audrey.

She wasn't close by, but nor could he describe her as being faraway. With her back to him, she was sitting very still on a park bench, alone.

He wanted to see her. Really, he _always_ wanted to see her. But – he glanced down at the side of himself he was regrowing like a starfish – he didn't want her to see _that_. After what felt like a minute that had been elongated by old Father Time, and he also suspected his scorching impatience only detained the speed of his recovery too, all flesh and bone became whole again. Running a hand over the fabric of his trench coat, the bloodstain vanished. Take _that_ Tide® laundry detergent.

Moving towards her, he found her sporting a pair of Lolita sunglasses as she read a book. It took an additional step or two to realize that she wasn't reading at all.

"Hello Audrey."

Acknowledgment was not made through words; instead, she removed her purse from the bench, vacating a space and patting it with a gloved hand, an indication for him to sit. His eyes attended to her as he did, seeing very clearly that her regard fell not to her book, but straight ahead. Following her line of vision, he spotted a couple sitting on another bench in the distance. They were kissing.

He looked at Audrey. And then back at the couple, tilting his head in effort to discern what was so engrossing about it. She was staring at them. _Staring._ He had to remark.

"Staring is a non-verbal aspect of communication that indicates interest or curiosity." His use of her own quote made her smile, but other than that, she did not respond, so he decided to allude to her personally. "Staring, in this instance, makes you a voyeur."

There was something disturbing about the way those heart shaped lenses turned to him with such seriousness. "Yes. That I am." Then she looked away, resuming her visual espionage on the couple.

Gaze drifting south, he noted the purse she had settled at her feet. It was her camera bag.

"I gather the impression that you wish to take a photograph of them." A hint of a smile marked his lips when she broke out into a grin, trying to conceal it by pressing the brow of the book above her mouth. He reached forward, deftly drawing off her sunglasses and assuring that their eyes met. It could have been a very corny moment, but her gaze descended. She screamed. Pigeons flew away.

He glanced down, but she was swift to take the offending whatever-it-was, which happened to be his right hand, and lift it up between them like a prisoner at the bar. Blood was still fresh between his fingers and all over his palm; it was the hand that had been clutching his side for the past few hours.

"OHMYGODWHATHAPPENEDAREYOUOKAY?"

A bit harshly, he wrenched back his hand, inwardly blanching at his own imprudence. "Paper cut."

"Paper cut?" she squeaked. His hand was snatched and lifted again. "THIS? Are you a hemophiliac or something?"

Again, he took back his hand. "No," he said, frowning as he produced a tissue out of his pocket. She was also rifling around in the pockets of her own coat, but instead pulled out a card.

"You need to see my doctor about that, seriously." With clean hands, he took the card from her fingers. A calling card for a Dr. Leo Spaceman: "a fine doctor, and a pretty good dentist!" it read. He frowned at her questioningly, but she merely blinked at him as though nothing was strange. Nodding, he stowed it away, staring at her as he did so. Her gaze had become tentative, and he knew why.

"I assure you, I'm perfectly fine."

"Are you gonna call him?" she questioned, her tone not unlike a strict mother.

"Yes," he lied. She was not convinced. So she began raiding his pockets.

"Audrey!" he protested, his voice oddly strangled as she felt around in the vicinity of an interesting place. Of all the things she could have pulled out, his phone was the chosen one.

"_I'm_ putting his contact number in here," she declared imperiously as she thumbed at the keys. "It'll be in capital letters, with loads of exclamation points, and a smiley face, so you can't resist calling."

Her spontaneity was always startling, but never unappealing. He had to smile. It was fast replaced with an expression of quiet alarm when she spoke again.

"Who's Dean?"

He froze. She must be browsing through his contacts. "A friend," he replied stiffly, "and colleague."

"Sam too?"

"Yes."

"Is it short for Samantha?"

"Dean would say so."

A moment later, he was to discover that _somebody _had changed his ringtone to blare his parody song from Saturday Night Live, when the phone began to ring in her hands.

Eyes flashing in alarm, he reached for the phone just as she answered it herself. "Audrey! _Don't _—"

"Cas, it's Dean," the voice drifted unwelcome from the phone she had set on speaker. "Bobby sprung on us a quick case in Clifton, New Jersey, and we want this wrapped up real fast, so —"

"A case?" she resounded. Her quizzical glance was lost on him as he was too busy staring intensely at the phone, investing all energy in masking the panic that was bubbling to surface.

After a beat of silence, sounds of hesitancy crackled from the back of Dean's throat. "… who's this?"

"Audrey. I'm a friend of Castiel's," she replied, her smile no doubt audible on the other end.

"Oh." There was a lull, and Castiel could imagine the look of delightful realization blooming on his face. "_Ohhhhhhh_," Dean slyly intoned, audibly grinning also. Even from miles away, the angel was still subjected to his persistent agonizing. Then, in an unsure voice, "What, am I on speaker phone?"

"Yes, Dean," Castiel answered, finally entering the conversation. "Is this urgent?"

"Uh, well we're not there yet," he replied awkwardly, as though distracted, "'cause we only just found out about the, um," his tone grew extremely unconfident as he tried to articulate himself with deference to Audrey, "_incident_ this afternoon, and uh, uhh… Bobby – er, _Robert_ from, from, from the head office —"

"Seriously?" Sam in the background.

"– has um, informed me that the events that took place are likely to occur again – you could even say _reoccur_," he underlined with an insightful air, "at exactly midnight, tonight." As though realizing how suspicious that sounded, he was quick to throw in, "– er, give or take a few minutes. You know. Whatever. Something to that effect."

"Thank you for forwarding that information to me," Castiel said, averting his eyes from the blinding glint of curiosity in hers. "Is there anything else?"

Boldness commanded Dean's tone once more and the angel could practically _hear_ a smirk seize his lips. "Uh, yeah! Audrey, Cas is warm for your form —"

"_Dean!_"

"— see ya!"

_Beep, beep, beep._

He gave her a pained look; a look that often crossed his face following the routine spectacles of Dean Winchester. Until now, he had yet to demonstrate this look to another person.

"He seems nice," she observed blithely, trailing a finger up and down his arm, him calmly watching as she did so. When their eyes met, he held out his hand and gave her a severe look, his subtext obvious. With an impish grin, she relented, and slapped the cell phone into his palm. As he pocketed it, he watched as she stared at him strangely for a few seconds, before shifting her position to kneel on the seat, eagerly facing him entirely.

"Remember last week when you propositioned me?" Bewilderment filled his face. Her next words, so light and casual, made it inflame. "Are you sure you didn't mean it?"

His mouth twitched to either speak or, oddly enough, smile. Speech won. "I… beg your pardon?"

"Are you sure you didn't want to?" she repeated, as though it was the most normal thing in the world. "I'm not asking if you actually _want_ to, I'm asking, if, at the time, or, I don't know, maybe even _now_…" She paused then, registering what she'd just said and how it changed the context of her question; unable to take it back, she ended in a diffident voice, "… you want to."

He raised his chin, eyes gleaming with dark interest. "Why do you wish to know?"

"Just curious."

With a blink, the interest in his eyes became something knowing. "No. To be curious is to seek with an open mind. What you are doing now… is propositioning me."

In overt disbelief, she sputtered out a laugh. "I am not!"

"Your question of "Are you sure you didn't want to?" is merely an unfinished variant of "Are you sure you didn't want to be intimate with me?" And since you've indicated that you also wish to know in the present tense, another method of phrasing it is "Are you sure you _don't_ want to be intimate with me?"" He paused, almost complacently, eyes glittering. "Which is it?"

"You can't ask that without the risk of having to go through with it?" she parried sassily.

"I suppose you can," he admitted. His head dipped eloquently, and somehow, his eyes seemed to darken with the move. "But how would you handle an answer of "No"?"

"Is that your answer?"

"Are you asking?"

Pause.

"No," came her stiff reply, shifting to sit properly on the bench, "I am not."

He continued to stare, eyes searching and pinning the topic she clearly wished to abandon and regretted bringing up. He didn't want to abandon it, not when it had such a compelling variety of potential conclusions. Also, he found that discomfiting Audrey was rather amusing. And he found it endearing that she was pretending to be oblivious to his eyes on her.

Slowly drawing out the words, prolonging the ordeal, he asked, "Is that the truth?"

"Yes." When she finally looked at him, she found his expression to be mutinously disbelieving, to which she had to insist against. "_Yes!_"

"You're smiling."

"So?"

"You're lying."

"_You're_ the liar!"

"You blush when you lie."

"Shut up, Cas." She crossed her arms, aspiring to sulk but unable to fight her smile. "Fine, then. I will ask you point-blank." Shifting to kneel on the seat again, she looked him dead in the eye. "Do you, Castiel, want to sleep with me?"

There was a lingering pause as they searched each other's eyes. Deciding to answer as plainly as it had been asked, he adjusted to face her. She seemed to squirm in anticipation. Finally, he spoke.

"I can't answer your question if I shut up."

Her mouth quirked to laugh, but all energy was instead conducted into smacking him. Capturing her hands, he stopped her and kissed her, putting on a display for any other voyeurs in the vicinity.

* * *

"Look – at – _you._ I have never seen you this … least solemn!" Gabriel pulled an exaggeratedly adoring face, cocking his head to embellish. "You are _so_ in like."

Castiel turned to him with an honest attempt to look serious, but was unable to rein in all vestiges of the small smile he had been wearing for a while now. It felt foreign, and it probably _looked_ foreign, but it seemed he tended to act out of character when Audrey had embezzled the center stage of his thoughts. Not that he was objecting. Not at all.

"Gabriel, I brought you here for a reason," he reminded evenly. Here being an abandoned warehouse with a table, layered with various "ingredients".

"Yeah yeah," he grumbled sorely, head sinking back down to his handiwork on the table, "I'm hexing, I'm hexing."

While he worked in an indignant silence, Castiel gazed in his direction, his thoughts veering outward as they usually did of late.

He hated lying. Not only was it dishonorable in general, but it always felt uncomfortably yet reasonably foreign to him. Reasonably because he was, of course, an angel, a paragon of virtue. It once was that the only words that emerged from his lips were that of the Lord's. Now, having been refined to humanity to a degree, it meant encountering human experiences, both the good (the way Audrey's eyelashes feathered his cheek when they reached a very non-platonic proximity) and the bad (lying, lying, and lying).

Of all the lies, he hated his with Audrey the most. Nothing but honesty and affection had been presented to him, and he had responded with either an outright lie or with monstrous ambiguity, which was a lot less burdensome but was still an effort he desired to avoid entirely. Even the "paper cut" lie stung him.

"I'm not sure how much longer I can carry on this façade," he grimly murmured to his feet. In his peripheral vision, he saw Gabriel look up, so he glanced to him. "Should I tell her who I am?"

Gabriel stared at him for an interested moment. "Can I interest you in advice?"

"Of course."

"Or do you want these hex bags done?"

Castiel blinked. Then he gave him the weary, mildly supercilious look he usually reserved for Dean. "You are incapable of doing two things at once?"

"I can, but only if I want to," he grinned. Castiel sighed, resigned his difficult ways.

"What do I do?"

Gabriel smacked his lips in earnest thought. "I'm not gonna lodge any options here," he said with discretion, "but I _will_ stress that every hour you spend with that girl, you're pulling back that blind-siding punch even further," a fist was raised and inched backwards to illustrate. "The eventual impact is gonna smart her even more when you tell her who you are."

He fidgeted internally, demurring from that ugly scenario. "I don't understand why it would."

"Then why the hesitation?"

Silence.

"You yourself told me that she has a lot of pride, and it's thin-skinned. So, how do you think she's gonna feel when she finds out that someone she's become close to has pulled the wool over her eyes, hm? What's more is that it's in regards to something she holds a fierce opinion about: religion. Existence, really. She'll feel that you've played her, as a woman, _and_ as a mortal of the human race."

Castiel's brow lowered with guilt. "That sounds unpleasant."

Gabriel pulled a wry face, nodding. "Mhm. It's going to be. Are you prepared for that astronomical turd to hit the fan? And, to put things in perspective, you being an angel and she being a human," he grimaced, "that is one _very_ small fan!" He began to smirk, shrugging suddenly. "But hey, you'll get over it, it's not like you're in love with her or anything."

Pause.

In the silence, Gabriel derived something unspoken from Castiel's lack of response, igniting something equally arcane in his eyes. Before he could vocalize his findings, Castiel hastily spoke.

"How do you imagine she feels?"

Whatever realization Gabriel had made lingered before his eyes for a moment, before easing it aside to see to this question.

"Like I said earlier, you two are so in _like_. Twenty-first century girls don't fall in love!" he snickered, as if a thought otherwise was simply outrageous. "They _think_ they do, but then they break up when he finds another girl and she gets fat. Little Red, being a New Yorker, is, by character, already ahead in this jam. No work and all play is her mantra. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am! That sorta thing."

If this was meant to be received as something encouraging, Castiel wasn't sure. "You don't know that."

He smiled dryly. "No, I don't. I'm just generalizing. But this generalization, incidentally, is promising for you. When the turd _does_ hit the fan, if it all turns out that she falls within that generalization, well just open up that kisser, try to quaff as much of the cocktail drink being thrown in your face, and move on!"

As Gabriel flippantly resumed his work on the hex bags, Castiel frowned down at him and his theories with distaste. He really should stop seeking advice from him. Yes, he was perceptive, but he didn't enjoy the way he diminished their relationship. He wondered, then, why it mattered. He was navigating both himself and Audrey to a dead end regardless. That was it really; she was a human, he was an angel. A reality easily forgotten, but never any less bleak at remembrance.

"I need some sodium chloride."

Yanked back to reality, Castiel peered at him. "Sodium chloride?" he echoed, as though unsure of what he'd heard.

"Yessum." Gabriel cocked an eyebrow. "Surely you know what that is?"

The pause he made contradicted the answer that followed. "… of course."

"Well," he flourished his hand zealously, "go find me some!"

His feet shifted hesitantly. "Sodium chloride?" he repeated, checking.

"Yesss?" Gabriel confirmed, slowly as though he was senile.

There was another disoriented few seconds before he nodded. "I'll try to be brief." And then he disappeared. Gabriel shook his head, smiling.

"It means salt, you chump," he snorted, chuckling mirthfully to himself. His phone rang, he answered. "The Lord here. As in, the Angel of. Brandi, baby! … What? … _Who's_ here to see me?"

Two names were spoken into his ear, widening his eyes and his grin, and in a split second, he was gone from the room, too.

* * *

Castiel knew what sodium chloride meant.

The knowledge was just secreted far, far behind the many thoughts of Audrey he had pleasantly sitting in the foreground of his mind. She was just too soft and pretty and quirky to have to forcibly push out of the way to make room for other thinkings – the definition of sodium chloride for example, or where exactly in the world he was going to land to find this element. It wasn't until he appeared in a New York University laboratory, poring over a periodic table, that he realized how irrationally slow he had been. Salt, of course! He _knew_ that!

Just when he was about to leave to liberate salt from someone with diabetes, he heard a door creak. Not just any natural creak, but a "I hope he didn't hear that!" creak of a door.

Oh no. He was _so_ wrong to allow Audrey the expanse of his focus. He had neglected to take the usual measures he would do to ensure a private landing. Silently, he strode toward the initial sound of creaking, towards a closet door. There were more sounds now; a terrified shuffling of feet, and another, hastened breaths, until there was nothing but a foreboding sort of silence as his fingers touched the fringe of the partly closed door.

Slowly, he opened the door, pouring light into the closet as his own shadow stretched across a figure; short and stout and very familiar. The figure was striving desperately to disappear into the shelves behind him, away from the angel that had materialized out of thin air, right before his Clark Kent glasses that were at risk of rattling right off the bridge of his nose, due to his uncontrollable trembling.

Castiel frowned down at the man, sighing in dismay. "Hello, Professor."

* * *

Things are getting tricky again. I was getting into the groove of rushing these chapters and suddenly I get this corporate video project I have to do. Hey, it pays. On top of that, after chapter thirty-three, I have absolutely nothing written down (all chapters so far had been roughly drafted _months_ in advance). Time, why must you move so fast.

By the way, a head's up to save confusion: **I'm combining chapters six and seven, so the next chapter will technically be chapter thirty-two and this will become chapter thirty-one.**

Read and review :D


	32. Premature Emancipation

It was completely silent, but the call for an explanation had never been louder.

Finally, they spoke, however together, in a tangled chorus.

"Allow me to explain —"

"WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?"

Silence again.

Castiel stepped forward. "Professor —"

"UH UH!" Professor thrust out his hand, holding out a Styrofoam cup like a weapon, and the angel stopped. With two emphatic motions of this cup, he punctuated two words: "Explanation! Now!"

He saw no reason to prevaricate anymore. "I am an angel of the Lord."

"I said explanation, now!"

"I have given you my explanation," he retorted sharply, "I am an angel."

"I don't hear explaining!"

His eyes twitched to scowl in the face of such illogically defiant atheism but it was never effected, as an outside voice coursed into the room. "Professor? Was that you?"

Grimacing at his luck, Castiel clamped a hand over Professor's mouth and lugged him back inside the closet, fumbling to close the door as he thrashed about like a dying cockroach in protest. He was easy to take hold of, not so easy to secure grip on. All frantic movements stilled when he exacted him with a fierce gaze that threatened and pleaded for silence all at once. Eyes of intense blue pinned those of panic-stricken brown, holding them captive as the owner of the outside voice wandered into the room, made only a slack effort to find him by calling another "Professor?", before retreating.

It was then that he released him, and straightaway, Professor resumed interrogation. "Explanation! _N_—"

With a snap of his fingers, Castiel stripped him of his voice, and with the same hand, he pointed a finger at him.

"Listen to me very carefully. Professor, _look at me_," he husked, inclining his head in an effort to beckon him away from the horror of his vocal loss, "I am an angel, sent by God to walk and monitor the earth, following events of which held the prospects to bring about the Apocalypse."

"THE APOCALYPSE?" mouthed Professor, as though screaming.

"Yes."

Professor was not only silent, which was a given considering Castiel's earlier maneuver, but he was speechless. His mouth worked as if producing only static, yet his gaping eyes glimmered with a salad of emotions that Castiel could not distinguish, but only understand its doing. After all, telling an average human being that the Apocalypse was feasible was bound to elicit some interesting reactions.

Wafting a hand over Professor's face, he restored his voice and when he heard himself exhale, he knew it had been done.

"You're pulling my leg, right?" he squeaked finally, following the angel out of the closet, "Y–you're yanking my chain?"

Taking this literally, the angel looked at him strangely before shaking his head. "I'm doing neither of those things."

Despite having asked the question, Professor was too overwrought to even listen. "Angels, let alone God, do not exist! They don't, they just _don't_!" His zealous pacing stopped suddenly. "But _aliens_…"

Already wise to where this was heading, Castiel angled his head warily. "No…"

"You're an alien!" Professor declared, face lighting up joyously like the sun. Castiel was quick to look pained.

"_No_," he replied tightly, his impatience wearing thin.

"Yes! Yes, that's it!" he piped triumphantly, punching a pointed finger in his direction. "Y–you're a Time Lord! You're the Doctor!"

"Doctor _who?_" He could have sworn he's had this conversation before.

"Yes, exactly!" His eyes dilated, delirious with glee. "I knew it! _Ohhh_, this all makes sense!" All excited movements calmed as he took the time to contemplate him. "Well almost – you just appeared here, _without_ a TARDIS… so, so what are you, the twelfth regeneration? Or has the BBC got it all wrong? Who's your companion?" His face brightened. "_Audrey_ is, isn't she? Oh, this is —"

"Stop." Although his tone was soft, his severe gaze commanded him. "For the final time, I am _not_ a doctor, or an alien."

"Yes!" he practically sobbed, conviction fast collapsing. "Yes! You are!"

The angel's expression was borderline sardonic. "You would sooner believe that I am an alien as opposed to a messenger of God?"

"… y–yes?"

"Then you are misguided —"

As Castiel advanced, Professor backed away, shaking his head wildly. "No."

"I am an angel of the Lord —"

"No no."

"A messenger of God —"

"No – no – _no!_" The word was stamped out in such different ways, one would presume he had just learned it and was conducting a thorough trial.

Feeling as though he was being beaten over the head with the word, Castiel stopped and frowned fixedly at him. "Why is this so difficult to believe?"

"Be_cause!_" he shrieked, his voice jolting upwards like that of a pubescent boy's, "_I_ –" he stabbed himself vehemently with a finger, "– am a scientist! Your existence makes me look like a dope! You go against everything th–that I not only believe in, b–but everything I know! It just can't be, I mean i–it's, it just can't – it can't, I – it just, it's —"

"My existence, and God's existence, does not negate everything that science has discovered, nor should it invalidate any advances to come. It should merely open up the spiritual side of your senses that has been sealed off." There was a shade of grudging comprehension in Professor's eyes, and although he desired to glimpse something fuller, a very important issue was needed raised. "I understand this is much to digest," his tone opened gingerly but then grew firm, "but you must _swear_ to me that you will not act rashly in wake of all this."

This authoritative side of him cowed Professor. "Wuh–what exactly does that —"

"That means absolutely no informing of others about this situation," his eyes flashed aggressively as he drawled the words for emphasis, "under – _any_ – circumstances. Do I make myself clear?"

"B–but we could really learn a lot about your species!"

Pause.

"I'm _not_ an alien!" he snapped, before closing his eyes and collecting his stoicism. Reluctant to hear the argument Professor was no doubt about to insist to him, he swept right past and moved towards a work surface. There, he picked up the pair of titanium scissors, meeting and locking gazes with an ashen Professor as he parted the blades.

"What are you doing?" Professor inquired warily, eyes flickering between his face and the blades. They swelled with horror when Castiel lifted it to his throat. "Don't do that. No, don't do that. Come on. No – _stop!_ Stop it! What are you doing! Oh God! Oh_ God!_ You're bleeding! Oh God, oh G_uhhh_… there's a God. There's a _God._ Oh God! Oh —" Castiel began to heal before his eyes. "—_oooohhhh_."

The scissors were settled back in their place, as spotless as they originally were, and he swept a hand over the bloodstain on his clothes, erasing it. With a look, he dared him to argue.

"Uh … an alien m–_might_ be able to do that?" he tried. Castiel deflated. Time to bring out the big guns. With an upward glance, he switched off the ceiling lights. He heard Professor gasp.

A finger was flexed in the direction of the overhead projector, triggering it to jet a glow of light onto him. The throwback of light glanced eerily off of Professor's face as he drew in a great breath at the sight of wings (or the shadow at least) unfurling impressively behind the angel, with the intent to release an awed sigh that never eventuated. There was nothing else to look at but each other, so the reality that was "Castiel the angel" engulfed Professor, now compliant to it. The light began to sputter, in time waning completely and abandoning them in the darkness.

"Okay," Professor rasped in the gloom, "I–I–I–I–I… _believe_ you." As Castiel reactivated the lights, Professor stared aimlessly at the floor, confounded. "This is… _unbelievable_. I don't believe it."

"You said, just a moment ago, that —"

"I know!" he cried, "I do, I _believe_ you! I just … I can't, I, I don't — _AARGH!_"

As Professor doubled over, groaning into his knees, Castiel looked down at him with a mixture of pity and exasperation for himself.

"I am truly sorry to have put this on you. It was never my intention."

Professor shot upright, eyes painfully incredulous. "What are you even _doing_ here?"

"I… needed to find out what sodium chloride meant," he replied, a little sheepishly.

"No! I mean here! On earth!"

"I've told you. God sent me here to keep a vigil on the earth."

"C–can't you do that from –" he hesitated, struggling with the term and deciding on the more ambiguous alternative, "– y'know, _up there?_"

"A _close_ vigil," he clarified darkly.

"And the _Apocalypse?_" he squeaked, clawing his frizzy hair, "That is _just_ – I mean, are you serious? It, like, happened, already?"

"Close to it," his eyes lowered solemnly at the memory.

"But how? I–I mean, who? When? Wuh–why? Where?"

"I believe you've heard enough," Castiel said firmly and decidedly, gaze taking charge on him again, "I've clarified things to you that were never meant for your consideration."

"B–but I can't – _answers_ – I need – I–I–I'm so —"

At that very instant, Professor's bout of spluttering was intervened when Castiel's cell phone chimed with a message alert. He pulled it out, and understandably, Professor reacted.

"Is that a —" his eyes squinted outrageously at him, "Y–you have a _phone?_ You? An angel? Have a phone?"

Peering at the screen, he saw that he had been bombarded with three messages at the same time. How strange. This cellular device was only really used to contact the brothers.

The first message was from Dean.

_we're in nyc atm and you'll never believe who we found_

Why hadn't they told him they were coming to New York?

The second message was from Sam.

_need you at starbucks near tkts booth in times square_

That was Gabriel's Starbucks joint. Uh oh.

Apprehension rose as the third message was indeed from Gabriel.

_You're a modern day Judas, you know that?  
_

His grip tightened on the cell phone grimly, releasing only to deposit it back into his pocket. Barely allowing him a glance, he brushed past Professor.

"I must leave now," he stated as he moved, but he didn't make it far as he was taken by the elbow.

"Nooo!" Professor wailed, absolutely petrified, "Y–you can't just ditch me after – after all _that!_"

"I have much bigger problems at present." The sternness of his tone and expression only managed to pry his grip off of him, but his pleading eyes never left.

"Wh–what am I supposed to do now? Huh? You're an angel!" He flailed his hands about, desperately. "Guide me, won't you!"

It never failed to grate him that the mainstream notion of angels came with wrongful expectations built by humanity, namely that they bent over backwards for mankind's convenience.

"I answer only to God, and since this was never meant to happen, I don't owe you anything," he dourly stated. Watching as this noticeably upset Professor, guilt and compassion resurfaced and he softened with a resigned sigh. "We will speak again soon."

A second later, he vanished, and Professor fainted.

* * *

"I _paid_ for one Upside Down Cherry muffin, and dammit I'm leaving with one!"

The amiable smile that Dean typically wore when bearing the masquerade of an authority figure (despite not being appropriately clothed in the suit) faltered into a grimace. This young woman was being especially difficult. Could she not see the connection between the man they were grilling, "employee" of the company, and the muffin she so sorely desired, sold by aforementioned "employee"?

"Ma'am, please," he ventured in measured tones, "We've already made it clear to you that we are health inspectors and we're just trying to do our jobs."

"You're wearing flannel," she tartly pointed out, crossing her arms, "Unless you're health inspectors all the way from Appalachia, _I don't believe you_."

These circumstances usually warranted an exchange of glances, but knowing that Sam was preparing an expression no doubt conveying "I _told_ you we should have changed into our suits!", Dean chose not to look at him. Another individual in attendance seemed to read his mind.

"Such untactful moves," Gabriel tutted chidingly from his place at the wall, where Sam had him locked by the collar, "You boys shouldn't have skipped the costume change. Ten points from Gryffindor."

Dean whipped around to him, eyes flashing and pretense withdrawn. "Okay, right now? I need you to shut your face gash or, so help me, I will plug it myself with one of your fancy muffins, got it?"

Gabriel was poised to parry, no less sly than before, when she interposed shrilly. "You are _mean_ health inspectors!" Once Dean's regard was drawn, she slapped him. "Shame on you!"

Rubbing his cheek, he gawked at her bewilderedly, "Hey, lady, I thought you didn't even buy that we were health inspectors!"

A reply was about to be issued when Castiel popped into existence behind her.

"I came as soon as I —" He noticed the young woman standing before him. "Audrey."

She twisted around, and jumped. "Oh! I didn't even hear you come in. Hi."

"Hello." His mind lacked the means to muster anything further, as it was too busy cursing a blue streak in Enochian. Everything was just coming up Castiel, wasn't it? One could only hope that tequila and salt was coming with all these lemons life was throwing at him; thrown the way a child would hurl peas across the dinner table with the sole intention of antagonizing their target.

Sam and Dean, realizing what had become of their situation, looked at each other, both growing matching expressions of "Oh shit…", while Gabriel appeared so gleeful, one would presume it were his birthday. On the surface, Castiel was quietly calm, when what he really desired was to duck into a shadow and dissolve into the darkness.

As though registering what he had initially said, she shook her head with a start. "Sorry, are you involved with," she pointed a thumb at the men behind her, oblivious to their acute scrutiny, "all that?"

His automatic response was to open his mouth, purely out of instinct and enabling no time to dwell on what to say. When nothing emerged, his gaze shifted onto the brothers, hoping they would wordlessly guide him. Under his scrutiny, they looked away unhelpfully. Frowning a little, he refocused on Audrey.

"_Yes_…" he answered with unusual length. She nodded slowly to accommodate his length of tone and when there was no elaboration, she turned aside to address all four men at once.

"Okay so, what's going on? Why can't _I_ have the muffin _I_ paid for and why are these peasants attacking the guy selling me the muffin and trying to pass off as health inspectors?"

That triggered a number of responses, all occurring in unison:

"You tried to sell her one of your creations?" Castiel angled aside to snarl this at Gabriel.

"I'm innocent, I swear on my Father's grave!" Gabriel cried melodramatically to room at large.

"Ma'am, this waiter isn't who you think he is," Sam directed to Audrey, his tone grave yet gentle.

"We're not peasants!" Dean blurted indignantly.

Of all responses, Dean's was the one that thieved all attention. Momentarily surprised to have captured it in such a way, he decided to take advantage of it.

"Look, Audrey, is it? I'm sure there are a million of these arabica bean joints in this city, so surely you can loosen that strangehold on a few bucks?"

"I don't see why I have to — what is _going on?_" There was no chance to answer. She jabbed a pointed finger at Gabriel. "You! What's up or not up with your muffins? And you two!" To the Winchesters. "Who are you really and what business do you have with a Starbucks employee? And you!" Castiel was next, and she paused, stumbling with him. "What relevance do you have here _at all?"_

No one spoke. It was evident to everyone that it was Castiel's answer she was holding out for, so the brothers were silent out of humility, while Gabriel simply wanted to watch him flounder.

Though he outwardly appeared otherwise, Castiel's mind was racing a mile a minute. "The Truth" had become the third party of their relationship, and now more than ever, it was begging to be formally introduced. He decided, or rather, he convinced himself that he would tell her, when really, he was aiming to superfluously prolong the lead up.

"Audrey," he began, gesturing the brothers, "this is Sam and Dean Winchester." When the spotlight was on them, they smiled dimly at her. She tilted her head, making a connection.

"Oh. Your friends and colleagues," she recalled, her own smile growing in recognition. Her regard momentarily singled out Sam with a frown. "You're not a girl."

"And this is Gabriel," he motioned her regard towards Gabriel (hence missing Sam's bemused glance), "my –" she was unmindful to the way he then locked gazes between Sam and Dean, "– brother."

Sam and Dean both narrowed their eyes as their suspicions undoubtedly raised between them. They, of course, had yet to know about the newly amicable nature of his relationship with Gabriel.

"Huh." Audrey fluctuated between acknowledging Gabriel with a smile and considering him with outright wonder. "Wow. You don't look like brothers."

"Well," Gabriel casually began, as though he wasn't being confined against the wall by Sam, "_technically_ we never shared a womb."

"Ah, I see. No – wait a minute." She turned a frown to the brothers, who flinched at her abrupt attention. "Why are you attacking your friend's brother?" She turned the frown onto Castiel. "And _these_," she gestured the brothers, or rather their clothing, with distaste, "are your _colleagues?_" As Dean gave himself a self-conscious downward glance, she heatedly asked, "What_ is_ it that you do?"

Those wide, innocent eyes of hers only incensed his guilty conscience. This shouldn't have to _be_ so hard. His eyes lowered, the reality of what was required of him weighing them down. However, unbeknown to the angel, the brothers had once again shared a glance and reached a mutual, unspoken decision, and when Castiel opened his mouth to speak, they got there first.

"He's our boss!" declared Dean. Both Castiel and Audrey looked at him with surprise.

At their attention, Sam nodded emphatically. "Yeah. He's a, uh, _powerful _guy."

Audrey let out an impressed whir as she turned to appraise him with awed eyes. "But what's the job exactly?"

The somber shade of his earlier expression was gone by the time she turned to him, as he assumed his very ceremonious manner. "Audrey, this isn't your business to examine."

"Hey!" she bit back, inflaming with indignation, "_My_ muffin, _my_ business!"

"Is that a euphemism?" Dean, under his breath.

When Castiel lowered his head at her, letting her feel the full weight of his seriousness, she surrendered. "Fine, I'll leave," she grumbled, shrugging her tote bag further up her shoulder. "Sort out your friends, will you? And _you_ guys –" to Sam and Dean, "– be nicer to your friend's brother." They stared back blankly, neither prepared to agree with her, and her gaze strayed south. "Oh and," she brandished a finger at Dean, frowning gravely, "exfoliate your hands." The instant she turned to address Gabriel, Dean revived from his stunned silence and pulled his wildest "What the _hell?_" face.

"And it was nice to meet _you!_" she said, being especially sweet to Gabriel. It compelled Castiel to dampen his solemnity enough to frown possessively at her.

Gabriel bowed his head gallantly and winked, "Enchanté, _sweetness_."

The word earned him an odd look, as if recognizing it from somewhere, before she moved to leave, waving at the brothers along the way. "Bye peasants," she said fondly, not at all malicious.

On her way out, she touched Castiel's arm lightly with that disarming smile of hers; a small gesture that never failed to wreak havoc on his formality and roused that curiously alluring warm flush within him. Against his ache to do otherwise, he didn't follow her out. Likewise, as she strolled off, Dean was grappling for words but took too long, managing to spill them out only when she had left.

"We're _not_ peasants!"

"In New York, you are," Gabriel remarked. Angling aside to lock eyes with Castiel, he added, "Right, bro?"

This reminded them all of their current predicament, steering them into a foreboding calm that promised bleak things for Castiel. The first of which was when he was exacted with the most withering of Dean's glares as he stalked him. Stopping just before him and holding his gaze, he then glanced between him and Gabriel.

"Is there something you'd like to share with us?"

* * *

BLAAAAASDFGHJKLHDFKLJHRGH. I've rewritten this chapter so many times, and I'm _still_ not satisfied. Fuck it, I'm so tired, lol.

Read and review (_anonymously, if you can't!_) :D


	33. Bless'ed are the Sleek

Dean's hands twirled about in the air in an effort to stall further communiqué from the two angels to sort out what had been so far imparted to him.

"Okay okay – let me get this straight," he interjected, before alternating a frown between both angels, "you're _allies_ now?"

Both were prepared to respond, but Gabriel was swifter to sound off.

"Don't be so bleak, Dean," Gabriel rebuked, glowering theatrically, "We've always _been_ allies. Allies who resented each other's presence along the same frontier, _yes_, but allies all the same. _Now_," he canted his head back to grin stupidly at Castiel, who didn't grant him so much as a glance, "we're friendly! Aren't we?" The grin coiled into a smirk at his deliberate silence, and he turned back to the brothers. "Strictly speaking, he's just not so indisposed to my natural charisma anymore."

It right away appeared that Dean was all set to commence mouthing off his angel, when Sam chimed in.

"Castiel, were you planning on telling us about your alliance?" he asked, electing a more permissive stance than his older brother.

The implication of the word had him grimly lowering his head. "This is not a diplomatic alliance," Castiel clarified bluntly. His austerity quickly lost momentum when he realized what he had to state next. It was a fact that he had yet to admit the reality of, even to himself. "This is a familial bond that has simply come to be amicable."

Foreseeably, a remark from Gabriel came forth without delay. "Tsk_awww_, I love you too."

"This is just mental!" Dean burst aggressively, scowling critically at all three of them as though alone in this judgment.

"Why do you believe so?" Castiel was quick to challenge. "You know just as considerably as I do that he is immanently good-intentioned."

Again, the stupid grin maneuvered his away. "Sticking up for _me?_ That's love right there."

For the first time in ten minutes, Castiel turned the darkest of looks to Gabriel. "I'm making an effort to absolve myself, not dignify you."

Meanwhile, Sam and Dean communicated with their eyes, seeking some form of conclusion or agreement but to no avail.

"Alright," Dean went on, awkwardly maintaining his authority, "well, then, what's all this about magic muffins?" At his regard, he seared Gabriel with a glare. "What's your game this time?"

His brow lifted incredulously. "What's my _game?_" he snorted, sweeping a look across each of them, "Who_ says_ that?" When no one joined him in laughter, he moderated finally. "'kay, that little trick o' mine? _Benign_," he declared decidedly. "And! Is it _my _fault that some halfwit of ample proportions ate one of my muffins on a high construction project? No it is not. It's not 1932! Construction workers aren't _supposed_ to bring their tin lunch pails onto the crossbeams!"

Considering all three of their identically unmoved faces, he spat out a humorless laugh. "If it reassures you chaps any, the "curse" only lasts for three months." Curiosity tinged their features, to which he explained himself to. "I figured three months was how long it would take for the novelty to wear off. Comedy has its expiration date. Look at Eddie Murphy."

The inquisitive tinge on their faces receded, and he was in the presence of blank canvases again. "Guys!" he laughed, "I am harmless!"

"Uh, _no,_" Dean disputed, frowning insistently, "no, actually, you _are_ potentially harmful. Just with good intentions under all of that swagger, and a cosmic lust for fun."

"That is to say –" he lifted an eyebrow cockily, smirking, "– _human?_"

Unimpressed, Dean's brow lowered further, letting it persist for a few extra moments as he discreetly asked, "What do you think?" He looked to Sam. "What should we do?"

"He's an archangel. And the Trickster," Sam replied flatly through the end of a sigh, "What _can_ we do?"

"Well this is fun!" Gabriel raved fondly to all, "It's like a gay, incestuous, double date, isn't it?" Wistfulness glazed over his eyes. "A thing of storybooks…"

"I know what _I_ wanna do," Dean grunted his reply, "I wanna get the hell outta here. I hate New York."

Castiel, who had been devoting attention to the brothers and not Gabriel, asked, "Why?"

Momentarily surprised to find him listening, Dean replied, "This city is a place for hipsters. Pretentious douches who make these parts of America more sacred than Jerusalem with their entire "holier-than-thou" attitude. They pretend to like things like underground bands and Dandy Warhol."

"_Andy_ Warhol," Sam corrected.

"Hipster," Dean sneered.

"Peasant," Sam scorned in jest. Dean glared.

"Oh and, here's the kicker. I had to pay fifty freakin' dollars to park my car – _fifty!_" he ranted on. "Why don't they just take my blood? I swear, this city will be screwing me so much I'll be leaving with some kind of venereal disease."

"How 'bout that. You really are a peasant," snickered Gabriel.

"I don't understand the reason for your indignation," Castiel said, tilting his head in an attempt to understand, "I recently provided you with ten thousand dollars."

"You're a tightfisted peasant."

Though Dean evidently had more to steam to blow, something occurred to Castiel.

"Wait." His expression was vacant until he looked at Gabriel, his gaze then seething. "You tried to sell Audrey one of your cursed creations?"

"Oh please!" Gabriel cried in genuine disdain, shrinking Castiel's temper. "Give me some credit! Why would I waste these past couple of months in brotherly rehab with you, listening to you lust after this broad, meanwhile giving you my words of wisdom – which, at the rate you're asking for it, I should start charging – only to then turn around and do you an injustice." He eyed him scathingly. "What is it, Castiel? Do you have zero faith in me, whatsoever?"

That translated to an emphatic "no". Castiel lowered his eyes ruefully. Reluctant to apologize, he feebly hit back, "For what it's worth, I did not betray you to Sam and Dean."

There was a flicker in his eyes in response, an indication that he was scouring his mind for the truth. Satisfied to find that it was, high spirits resurfaced with a smirk. "It's cool. I believe you."

Somewhat disturbed by this exchange, Dean whirled around to Sam. "Okay, seriously, dude, _what_ do we do?"

Sam listlessly threw up his hands with nothing to offer. "Find another case?"

"I mean now. With _them_. With this damn city!" he raised his voice especially for the premises. He examined his watch. "With the fact that I have to recharge my parking meter soon."

"Just head back to the motel, I guess," Sam replied, fast resigned to this plan, "Maybe give Bobby a call?"

Both brothers looked at Gabriel when he snorted derisively. "Sacré bleu, your plans are just as pitiful as your earlier demonstrated acting skills. You're in New York! Concrete jungle where dreams are made of! There's nothing you can't do! So, have some fun!"

Sam huffed a cheerless laugh. "Yeah. We renounced the whole idea of fun a long time ago."

Dean nodded drearily. "Yeah, let's be honest, our fun only lasts as much as whatever beer bottle we're sipping from."

"Beer, huh? I know a good place." At their attention, Gabriel elaborated. "MacLaren's Pub. You should check it out." They regarded him oddly, as though hesitant to take suggestions from, well, him. He beamed, and wildly gestured the door. "Go on! Scoot! Get your drink on!"

Sam, almost reluctantly, peered at Dean. "You wanna?" he asked lamely.

"Couldn't hurt," Dean shrugged, an underlying trace of delight present. "Maybe I'll wake up in some girl's bed," he mused wistfully, beginning to smirk, "Beats the ones we're paying for."

"What about you, Castiel?" Gabriel questioned slyly. "Do you also see yourself waking up in a girl's bed tomorrow morning?"

Both brothers' regards snapped to him widely, thoroughly disturbed by that notion but curious to hear his answer.

"This conversation just got weird," Dean mumbled to Sam from one side of his mouth. Gabriel heard it and grinned smugly.

"Obviously he doesn't talk to you peasants about his extracurricular activities as much as he does with me!"

"If this "peasants" thing is gonna stick, I'm suing that girl," Dean muttered moodily.

"Legal action? I encourage it. It's the only kind of action she'll be getting in a while." Gabriel glanced back at Castiel. "Unless _you_ have something to do about it."

"So _that_ was Audrey?" Dean interrogated in disbelief. "Dude, when you mentioned her having red hair, I thought you meant, like, ordinary red hair. Like little orphan Annie, or Conan. Or that kid from Harry Potter." He paused, staring into the distance as he recalled it. "Seriously, that hair is just insane."

Gabriel pressed a finger to his chin thoughtfully. "I wonder if she's natural red head." His eyes lit up. "Ooh. Here's a thought." He looked at Castiel. "Why don't you go find out for me?" The curtain of his theatrics began to fall as his slyness began to seep through. "I know a place you could look to learn the answer."

After much patience, Castiel's gaze flared at him. "Why are you pushing this?"

For a moment, Gabriel simply smiled dryly at him, as though the answer needn't be said. Instead, he began to sing, in the tune of a certain _Grease_ song:

"Look at you, you must agree, you're lousy with virginity! Won't fornicate 'til the millionth date, you're a prude as it would seem!"

A death glare was fired his way before turning to the brothers, ignoring the shade of amusement on their faces. "What are your plans?"

"That depends." Dean turned a suspicious scowl onto Gabriel. "What are _your_ plans?"

"My plans go the flow of my instincts," Gabriel replied airily, fluttering a hand to illustrate, "so God only knows," he smirked, "Ask him."

Eyes contemplating him, Dean dithered, looking insufferably conflicted. He whipped around to Sam. "This doesn't feel right. You know? Just leaving him here and doing nothing?"

"Well… it's not like he's totally under the radar. Castiel's around," Sam argued weakly, gesturing the two angels.

"I guess," Dean granted thinly. Said angel stepped forward with an air of great duty.

"He will be under my constant vigilance," he said.

"Right, whenever you're not chasing that skirt," Gabriel quipped, rolling his eyes.

"Audrey is beyond her skirt," Castiel retorted.

"As in, outside the physical confines of? I'd have to disagree with you there, but hey, feel free to prove me wrong. Send pictures too."

As the angel brothers shared their usual look – one scowling and the other grinning mirthfully – the human brothers paralleled the look with equally discomfited expressions. Together, they chorused:

"I need a drink."

* * *

Delivering the Winchester brothers to MacLaren's Pub meant staying for an additional ten minutes to watch Dean have all his women stolen from him by a very familiar looking blond in a designer suit. Just when he had warmed up to a nice brunette by the name of Robin, the blond coolly approached, swung his arm around her and navigated her away without further word.

"Hey! Armani!" Dean had barked. The blond had turned, eyebrow raised in that typical overweening New York yuppie manner. "Did it not occur to you that we were having a conversation?"

The blond had simply looked at him up and down and derisively snickered, "_Please_."

Unable to retaliate as he had turned away from the Winchester, he had spun around to Castiel and Sam, who was nursing his own drink and not at all bothering to hide a smile. Sam clinked his glass against the one Dean held numbly in his hands.

"Let's hear it for New York," Sam said dryly, as Dean plunked down on his seat, grumbling something about yuppies under his breath. Not too soon after, Castiel had left them to their own devices, and was now standing by elevator doors that lead to Audrey's apartment, monitoring the revolving threshold of Bloomberg Tower. Finally, who he had no doubt been waiting for walked through.

"Cas?" Audrey acknowledged, her surprise slowing her step for a moment and delaying a smile, "What are you doing here?"

"I apologize for earlier," he said simply, pushing off from the wall and approaching her. "I want to give you this," he stopped before her and held out a muffin.

Immediately, she smiled open-mouthed as she gushed, "Oh, that is so sweet! But," the smile crooked awkwardly, as she raised the paper bag she'd been holding, "I kinda already went to another place to get my hands on some, but I'll take it." Accepting it from him, she squinted at it. "This is a cupcake."

"What's the difference?"

"I don't know," she shrugged, placing it inside the bag with the others, "Muffins are just ugly cupcakes, anyway." She smiled wryly for a moment before tapping him on the arm. "So how did things go with your brother and your…" she fumbled with the reality, "…friends?"

"It was all a misunderstanding," he replied, following her to the elevator doors.

"So I could have had my muffins?" she lifted an eyebrow, her tone vaguely annoyed.

With his silence, he stopped her from walking further. He fixed her with a conflicted gaze. "I still recommend that you don't go there anymore," he told her carefully.

"Yeah okay," she passively agreed, shrugging. Clearly, her concerns lied elsewhere, becoming clearer when she grinned. "What an interesting night. I learned that you've had a brother at the Starbucks place I frequent, and your friends and colleagues dress very unalike to you. And apparently," she narrowed her eyes, "you're a _powerful_ guy." There was a pregnant pause as her narrowed eyes became a look of suspicion. "Taking into account your colleagues, and what they wear, not to mention how they were handling your brother…" her eyes resumed normalcy, her smile sheepish, "… I'm honestly without ideas." She inflicted him with an imploring look. "Will you ever, _ever_ tell me your job?"

He gave her a look that would be received as one of painful admiration, when in fact he was apologizing silently but profusely to her. And although he knew he didn't deserve to, he pulled her closer by the shoulder and kissed her tenderly. When he pulled away, he stayed close, neither looking at the other but between them. He said one word when the elevator doors _ding!_-ed open.

"Goodnight," he said, turning to leave.

No more than five steps were taken before he heard her shyly call out for him. "Castiel…"

He stopped and turned to her. "Yes?"

She had yet to turn back around to him, facing the open elevator cart and tapping a finger on the door frame, contemplating. Moments later, the tapping stopped, and she turned to face him with an air of resolution. Something different was banked in her eyes.

"My TV's been playing up lately. You think you could come up and give it a look-see?"

Had he been holding something, he would have dropped it. That was it. The bluff. That was one of the signs Gabriel had versed him about. She wanted it. She wanted _him_.

That fact was being admirably masked, as she merely looked at him evenly, awaiting his response. Her eyes gave her away. With enough effort – and Castiel was always one to do his utmost when it came to obtaining what was required – one could glean her ulterior intentions from her eyes. Whatever simmered hotly behind them could have easily been misinterpreted for mild impatience, but in context to what her bluff indicated, it most certainly was something more carnal.

It was in his hands now. Shall he take that statement and make it literal? One would think that that guilty conscience of his was obnoxiously overriding any other impulses that were fighting for authority, but frustration – a novel sort of frustration that stirred low within him, inflaming furiously with every little thing she did – barred any chance of it consuming him. Thus, he was left with nothing but the exact same feeling she no doubt reflected behind the veil in her eyes, clouding the depth of her desire.

So, he joined her in the elevator.

* * *

I really didn't want to post this chapter because it's 80% completed, but I have to wake up in about six hours to catch a plane. I'm jetting off to Sydney for a few days with my best friend for her acting school audition, so I wouldn't be able to update until I got back. So, sorry about that, lol. Might edit it a bit more when I return; I'll let you know if I do. Anyways. Wish my best friend good luck! :D

Read and review :)


	34. Divine Intervention

Previous chapter has been edited to completion. Please go back and read it for the sake of my dignity. Barney's in it, I swear. :D

* * *

"Well. Here we are."

Indeed they were. Both scoped out her lounge room, absorbing every detail for no real purpose other than to occupy some time as they both pondered. In actual fact, he didn't so much think as much as he clung to the only lucid thought he had in his possession, which was that if she persisted this dance around her intentions, he could not be held accountable for how he counteracted. The flaming matchstick had been precariously dangled over the kerosene for far too long.

"Oh!" she piped suddenly. "How silly of me! I forgot! It was my old TV that wasn't working; not the one I have now. Of course! What was I thinking?"

Her labored dialogue could convince anyone that she was reading off a teleprompter. The look he lined onto her was knowing, though not overtly enough for her to be able to glean his comprehension of her ulterior intentions. So, she merely supplied him with her practiced smile of innocence. She thought she had him fooled. Behind those wide, falsely guileless eyes, she was just _so_ sure of herself. Little did she know he had a flaming matchstick of his own hidden behind his back. Then he turned to leave.

"Hey! Where are you going?" she cried, rushing around to front him, holding out her hands but careful not to make contact.

"There's no longer a need for me to be here. I will remove myself from your clearance," he said, moving to round her but was caught by the arm. She nearly detached herself from him, but found herself being pinned on the spot by his eloquent gaze.

"But I want you to stay," she contended dumbly.

"_Why_?" The word was asked in a darkly, emphatic way, aiming to prompt not just a reply, but the truth itself.

Finally, having perceived his wisdom in the corner of her mind, her face blossomed knowingly, enhanced with a smile glowing of suggestion.

"_Because_," came her reply, as darkly empathic as his question, thrown at him like a challenge. He watched her mosey past him toward the lounge with affected casualness. Her blush was lost on him.

"That's not an answer."

Though she strove so hard to appear levelheaded to him, it seemed she could not bring herself to face him now, settling on stroking the glossy piano top instead. He smiled a little. She was – dare he realize it? – _embarrassed_. It was a rare display. Amusing as it was, the humor of the moment receded when something dark seeped into his eyes, and he began to stalk her.

"_Audrey_," he drawled as he neared, her name smoothly elevating in pitch at the end, almost as a question.

After a few empty moments, she gingerly turned to him as he stopped before her. Only for a split second was she allowed a glimpse of a gentler expression to put her at ease, before his eyes flashed with heat and a hand snaked around her neck, bringing their mouths together.

Her response was immediate and desperate to fill every ounce of her hunger as though she would never get another chance to. She had been _so_ ready for this. Her hands framed his face as she moaned into his mouth, angling them to perfection, while his hands mapped out her back as she pressed herself willingly against him, arching against his touch.

It seemed his borrowed flesh had particular things relevant to this manner of conduct committed to memory. A distant impression of what felt good, fast surging into a thorough bank of knowledge, which he abode by. Newly anxious to please, he stole into her mind without shame and sought what she desired, and _so_ surprised at what he found there, he pulled away to regard her incredulously.

With eyes heavy with arousal, she scowled at his withdrawal. "What?"

What an impressive diversity of … ideas she had banked in that subconscious of hers. Well, what Audrey wants, what Audrey gets.

He placed an open-mouthed kiss to her pulse, his body so closely in line with hers that he felt a moan rumble up from her chest and spill from her lips, taking them with his own when they opened. Her hands roamed up his arms, en route to his shoulders, but inelegantly shot up to cling to him when he startled her by breaking the kiss to pick her up and seat her on the piano. The elevation evidently made for very convenient access.

They kissed themselves into a haze with clumsy enthusiasm, the mutual attention to lips slipping away when her ankles locked around his back and forced him against her, avid to have what he could give. No no _no_ - he was new and he was learning; she would have to wait longer.

Forever grateful for her skirt, his hand disappeared under it. Had his presence of mind been intact, he would have concluded for certain that if angels could play favorites, her legs would definitely be his favorite part of her anatomy. Possibly because she allowed swathes of it open for inspection, especially now, as his fingers flirted with the soft flesh of her inner thigh. It was not meant to provoke as he was simply reveling at such softness, but it did, and it antagonized her into reaching between them with a strangled groan and clawed at his belt. Against her neck, he nearly smiled; she was so, _so_ aggressively impatient.

With both hands, he removed her impatient ones from him and pinned them to the piano surface, guiding her to take purchase on it as his lips lured hers in to meet his. Their mouths opened together, and since neither of them had done so as yet, he reintroduced her to his tongue, surprising her as it brushed against hers, inviting her to play. So far, so good. He had yet to come up dry on what to do, but he was far too distracted anyway to agonize the possibility of it arising just around the corner. If it did, he wouldn't put it past her to see this undertaking through to the end herself.

Certainty came when she ground up against him in invitation, deliciously wanton, wallowing in the feeling of him so close to where she wanted him. Oh yes, knowing the tenacity of Audrey Hathaway, he was bound to leave her home sans virginity, whether she took it willingly from him or not (but really, what are the chances of him being unwilling at present?).

He had to be slow. No – by the way she had been clawing at him like a wild cat, slow was undesired. Progressive was the word. He had to approach this inch by inch, protract the string of desire until it snapped. He removed command of her hands, one moving to anchor the back of her head as he listed her backwards slightly, lips still connected, the other boldly sidling right up her skirt again. Fingers quickly locating what they sought, he learned that the thrill of his conduct had done most of the work for him. If it were in an angel's nature to do so, he would have bragged.

His intimate touch had her squirming for him, breaking the kiss to mewl in his ear. His eyes closed at the sound of it. Suddenly, he had the fiercest urge to touch her. All of her under all of him.

Nearby, Rembrandt had to dodge the honorary flying objects; her scarf, her blazer, his trench coat, her heels (one of which smashed glass somewhere, but neither party cared), her knee high socks. When Castiel's tie danced through the air and landed on the feline's face, he meowed disgruntledly before padding out of the room. _Humans_.

So much for progressive.

His impatience now plainly matching hers, he heard her tear out a ragged, laugh-inflected moan in triumph of having him as he drew his tongue up the curve of her neck.

Then he remembered what he had found in her mind. An idea she thought he would never do. The fact that it doubted him only provided the challenge, one he now decided to take. His curious fingers, that had so far been trifling around between her legs, smoothed over the thin material there, considering, inspiring her to moan and coil her legs tighter around him. This is what she wanted, his internal dialogue echoed, as his thumb dipped into the fringe of her underwear. Time seemed to suspend around them as he slid them off, isolating their thoughts to nothing but that very action.

Almost there, he thought, grazing his lips up her knee. Her gaze burned down on him, and he detected an uncharacteristic weight of bravado lost from it and the added sentiment of "No... he _wouldn't!_" as his lips furthered their torturous climb. At her thighs, it became an open-mouthed kiss. His hands slithered up to cradle the backs of her knees, and she began to huff in anticipation. Assisting her further apart, his tongue became involved, sneaking across the sensitive skin at her inner thighs. When he heard her breathlessly moan his name, it set something off in him, so he finally obliged her.

Almost.

"Never fear! Father's here! Where's my voluntarily-gingerbread girl?"

Audrey let out a squeal, a suppressed scream of sheer horror, and hustled Castiel away from her frantically. He did not fall, but before he had completely gathered his bearings, she had already adjusted the clothes she was still wearing and kicked the strewn garments under the sofa.

"God – damn – freaking —" she spluttered as she did all this, not even looking at him as she took his hand and navigated him elsewhere. "My dad's come to visit and I completely forgot!"

A confused frown was about to be aimed her way, but their regards whipped in the direction of jingling keys. Hysterical, she whimpered and began flailing around on the spot helplessly, mentally groping around for a plan in desperation. Then, she gathered his trench coat and tie off the floor and wordlessly tossed it to him. He didn't put it on as he instead watched her dishevel her hair even more, lick her fingers and skim them down from her eyes, forming fake tear streaks from her eye makeup.

"What are you doing?" he finally asked. When she looked at him, noticing that he was just standing idly by, she waved a hand at him madly.

"Put it on! Put it back on!" she hissed.

They heard the front doors swing open. She gasped, dithering for a final moment, before glancing sharply at him, all fidgety movements stilling suddenly, and then gave him a firm push. As he toppled over the sofa, landing hidden behind, her father, a robust man in tweed, sauntered in. Kind souls aged gracefully, it would seem, and his age only betrayed him in his graying hair.

"There's my angel!" he exclaimed in his potent English accent (while Castiel bristled at the word), belatedly noticing the mess and of course, how she looked. "Darling, my, what's wrong?"

Acting ability in effect, she burst into tears and lunged for him, intentionally confining him in an embrace.

"Daddy!" she cried melodramatically. Castiel peered around the side of the sofa, and when she saw him, she frantically maneuvered them around so her father's back was to him. "He broke my heart! Oliver broke my heart like a –" She spotted nearby the crystal vase she had shattered with her shoe earlier, and appalled, she dropped the act. "– two thousand dollar vase I bought from Tiffany's!"

Her father shifted to follow her gaze. "What?"

Her act quickly resumed. "D'ah, nothing!" she shouted, grasping his chin and guiding him to look down at her. Fake tears began again. "Just hold me, daddy, hold me and never let go and, and, and don't look at anything else but me for a while."

Though her requests noticeably baffled him a little, he obeyed. "Of, of course, darling," he whispered, his voice deep and velvety as he stroked her hair and shushed her soothingly. It made a very heartwarming, picturesque scene, if it weren't for Audrey staring widely back at Castiel, eyes darting emphatically in the direction of the door. Understanding, he rose to his feet and inched for the exit.

At the threshold of his only escape route, Rembrandt slunk into appearance, always a merciless difficulty. Already in a foul mood, Castiel gave it a withering look. It meowed in response.

"Is that Rembrandt?" her father asked, twisting around to the sound. He very nearly caught sight of Castiel but was taken by the sound of Audrey's shrieking.

"HE SAID HE LOVED ME, DADDY!" she wailed into his chest, stealing his full attention once more. At her distraction, Castiel waved a hand, simultaneously silencing the feline and sending it sliding into the corner of the room against its will while he slipped from the room.

Trench coat and tie back in full effect, he simply stared at her doors. Well. _That_ was interesting. Instead of vanishing immediately, he waited a few minutes. As hoped, she eventually emerged from those very doors, walking backwards into him as she shouted into the room.

"— just be a few minutes, I'm gonna check if I have mail in the lobby! Uh… preferably not from Oliver!" she added, breaking into a sob that ceased the instant the door closed. Finally shut, she leaned against it, shaking with silent laughter.

Turning to him, her mouth opened with the intention to speak, but laughter persisted for a few more moments.

"I am _so_ sorry," she said imploringly, teetering toward him, "I really am. And honestly, I wish I could just lock you up in my room 'til he falls asleep, but," she smiled painfully, "I think it's best you go."

He nodded numbly, unable to provide anything else, including thoughts. Cognition was currently failing him for some reason. All energy was still in the physical, which fueled the moment she reached out and tightened the knot of his tie. Hand curling around it, she yanked him down for a quick kiss.

"I'll get you another time," she purred against his mouth, before briskly spinning at her heel to disappear back into the room.

His body reacted faster than cognition could, and his hand charged out for her hip and snared her against him. Such a foreign impulse was overriding all his abilities, and in its foreign nature he had little resistance primed for it. It felt hot and violent but in different way. The "buzz" from earlier days of their relationship seemed so tiny in comparison to what he felt now; a viciously frantic, almost painful need for intimacy. To carry on with a metaphor Gabriel once proposed, he had earned that sought-after car and wanted nothing more than to jump in, but here he was, being denied it.

His hand drifted down and up her skirt; she was still very much unclothed underneath. This was him acting like a stubborn child wanting nothing more than to play with his food already. The entire time he scowled petulantly at her, his demeanor altogether begging an adamant "no". How could she possibly expect him to just leave in such a state?

"_Castiel_," she aimed to sound authoritative, but it emerged seductive, driving him further anxious for her. Unaware of the fact that he had been steering her backwards, she squeaked with surprise when her back met the doors, and in her distraction he triggered into action, taking her lips and scooping up one leg to wrap around his waist. She coiled into him when he pressed against her, both their bodies reacting in the worst of ways at the contact.

Clarity sooner dawned on her than him, and she began shaking her head, making dismissive noises from the back of her throat. Since he was none the deterred, she was required to push him away. He went for her collarbone. She pushed him away again, and fixed him with a look.

"Down, boy," she chided jokingly, but her gaze remained firm, "I'm sorry, Cas, but this will have to wait."

His eyes lowered moodily. "But I —"

"I know," she said, blinking sympathetically, "Listen, if you need a quick cold water fix, try to imagine those friends of yours and your brother having sex!"

He grimaced, and nearly went cross-eyed. It worked _too_ perfectly. Wisely deciding not to touch him, she gave him a warm smile before bidding him goodnight and disappearing into her room.

Damn everything.

* * *

This wasn't how he anticipated spending the next morning. What he had once imagined involved Audrey. Instead, he sat across from Professor, hands clasped on the table between them, in Monk's Café. _Monk's_ Café. Castiel wondered if Professor chose the place specifically for his announcement. After a long few minutes following Castiel's order for him to stop bowing down to him as though he were a deity himself, Professor spoke.

"I've decided to become a monk."

Castiel stared at him for a few moments. "No."

In defense, he recoiled. "Uh, wh–what do you mean, no?"

"You're not doing that."

"Since when do angels dictate my decisions?" he retorted, but flinched immediately, believing his words to sound too cold and attempted to tame it with with a quivering, hangdog smile.

"_I _must take responsibility for my mistake," he stated firmly.

"B–but, no, y–you helped me believe!" he contended, wildly shaking his head.

The force of Castiel's gaze fell flat. "My appearance didn't so much assist you in accepting the Lord as true, so much as I had driven the reality right onto you. Belief is not synonymous with knowledge."

Professor hummed a dubious sound, agreeing with some resistance. "_Still_… this can't be that bad," he insisted, attending only vaguely to the yet-to-be-touched bowl of tomato soup before him.

Irony washed over the angel's features. "A moment ago, you announced to me that you have decided to become a monk."

"That's not bad…" he mumbled demurely.

"Not by definition," he pointed out sharply, "but it's simply not meant to happen. Fates have been determined by a higher power; angels exist to ensure they're achieved without outside interferences."

Curiosity flickered in his eyes, obviously intrigued but unsure if he wanted the answer. "Wh–what do you mean, outside interferences? Like, l–like monsters and stuff?"

"If you wish to see it that way," he murmured, sweeping a gaze indiscriminately across the diner. His attention was snared back when Professor's fist slammed down on the table.

"Stop being so doggone cryptic!" he whined manically.

"Pardon me," Castiel replied sardonically, his tone raising testily, "but I believe I've disclosed more than enough for your wisdom."

Already, Professor's hands were waving in their air dismissively. "You're right, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I–I'm beside myself here, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Pause. "But I'm still becoming a monk."

"Why?"

"I owe God this —"

As though expecting this, Castiel quickly cut in. "Absolutely not. If anything, _I_ owe God, for my lack of foresight."

"But you helped me see the, the light!" he maintained, gesturing the ceiling lights as though it would help any.

"_No_," wry amusement touched his eyes, "I accidentally revealed it to you."

Professor waved a hand, brushing that matter away. "Look, I brought you here to, uh, ask f–for a favor. I don't know much about how religious communities work, but, ah…" he dragged the spoon around in the soup, hesitating, before dropping it and committing to his objective, hands clasped, "do you think you could get me enrolled to your seminary?"

There was ten seconds of silence as Castiel stared at him. At five seconds, Professor demurred under his regard.

"You still believe I'm a professor at the Union Theological Seminary?"

This gave Professor reason to demure further. "Aren't you? I thought you were moonlighting there, undercover angel sort of thing," he mumbled, feeling very stupid, "It's why you're in New York, right?"

There was a brief pause as the true reason did not even come to mind. At least, an answer that related to his mission on earth.

"No, none of that is true."

"Th–then why are you here?" Studying him for a moment, he gasped, leaning in discreetly. "Are there… are there _monsters_ in Manhattan?"

"They are everywhere," he answered simply.

Horrified eyes gaped at him for thirty solid seconds before Professor tore from his seat, threw some money on the table and tremulously gathered his suede coat.

"That's it – _ohhhh_, that's it, I have to be closer to God, right now!"

Castiel eyed him critically, watching him tug on his coat. "Where are you going?"

"Church!" Professor looked up and did a double-take of Castiel, a thought taking hold of him. "And you – since you can't do me the favor of enrolling me – I have another request."

He bristled, narrowing his eyes into a scowl. "I don't owe you anything."

"You owe God something, and since I'm one of his sons, I expect some courtesy from his operatives!" Professor argued snottily. Catching his tone, he shook his head in an effort to clear it. "Oh _Christ,_ I mean, oh_ Jesus_, I mean, oh _God_, I mean – ugh! Just sorry, _sorry_ – I'm really, really stressed right now. I–I'm having an existential crisis, that's what's happening here…"

Watching him bury his head into his hands and groan, Castiel's scowl moderated. After all, he did cause this. He sighed. "What's the request?"

With a sniff, Professor straightened his spine. "Mind my class."

"What?"

"I–it's just for today, and it's only one class," he reassured, pulling out a crumbled timetable, "Two half hour periods at twelve, both are spent in exam prep."

Castiel took one look at the paper laid out before him. "I'm not doing that."

"It's okay, don't worry, I–I–I'll sneak you in and then I'll pop out —"

"Professor —"

"_Castiel_," he interrupted emphatically, his gaze pleading, "please, _please_ do this for me." His voice became very fragile and very soft. "I… I just feel the need to be in a church right now. I didn't go last night because I was still reeling. I couldn't function. I'd lost the capability to do anything other than curl into the fetal position and hyperventilate into the Styrofoam cup I threatened you with. But now, I just need to be there, in a church. Just to _be_ there." His pained expression eased at the comforting thought, and it was then that Castiel knew he couldn't deny him of that.

"And it's not like you won't know anyone!" he went on, more animatedly, "Audrey's in my class!"

The mention of her completely took him by surprise. "What?"

"Yeah, sometime after our debate, w–we had a coffee and she agreed to audit my class for the semester. Maybe a whole year if she likes it. Said she wants to expand her mind and… what's wrong?"

Castiel's expression had grown progressively affronted as he had spoken.

"But she told me…" He couldn't bring himself to verbally recall it. So much for only having brains for him! She was being intellectually unfaithful to him! Intellectually promiscuous, that's what _she_ was!

Professor watched him, and when he was unable to follow his line of thinking, he shook his head. "So, uh, wh–what do you say, huh? Keen to play teacher to her student for one hour?"

Castiel refocused on him, eyes alight with new ambition, and nodded.

* * *

Sorry for the lateness. Having a personal crisis. While in Sydney, I discovered that the prestigious film school directly linked to and is on the same lot as Fox Studios (where they shot Moulin Rouge!, Star Wars, The Matrix, Mission Impossible, Superman Returns, _fffffuuuuu_) only recently started accepting people my age. So now I have to settle for less. I shouldn't compare the schools superficially, but my god, the facilities, the theater, the green/blue screen studios … I was eating my heart out. And it's thirty-two thousand dollars cheaper. It's too late to apply, and I suppose I can drop out of my school next year and apply for it, but I was never the type of person to "drop out" of things. Especially after proudly telling everyone about my film school. Le sigh. Such is life.

But here's the good news: my best friend got into her acting school and we scored an apartment near Sydney harbor! At least temporarily. But still!

Anyway. Read and review :)


	35. Hot For Teacher

In its usual habit, a jittery hand strayed to his pompadour hair of a ninety degree angle – which vaguely resembled a rat's nest – and brushed through it. The hand jittered not with nerves, but with his habitual effervescence and an added delight of being here. No, he was not nervous, not ever. It was his first day of college; he was just super psyched. Though, he was quite possibly the only person in the room not only over the age of fifty, but also only enrolled for the novelty of being able to later say that they were a "college dropout".

"Nervous?"

Because his head was never one to _turn_ in a conventional manner, his head whipped in the direction of the voice, to the fire engine red head seated next to him with fluffy pens needled into the root of her ponytail. Both had been quietly immersed in their own worlds – hers more faraway while his resided very avidly in the present setting – as around them students were suffocating the lecture theater of its sophistication with their rackety fraternizing, a tendency more suited for a high school setting than New York University.

"Me? Noooo, nononooo," he dismissed gravely, shaking his head, "Lemme tell ya – Cosmo Kramer does not get nervous. Believe me, this cat is as _cool_ –" he popped a cigar in his mouth, lit it, and puffed a tiny cloud of smoke, "– as cool can be_._"

Anyone else would give him the side-eye. Instead, she smiled and held out a bar of chocolate.

"Curly Wurly?"

"Curly Wurly whah?"

"Cadbury chocolate, from England. Not commonly found here. My dad brought it back for me."

He twitched in protest. "Nah, nah, I'll pass on that, kid. I'm actually more partial to a Junior Mint myself, but other than that, I've rarely touched the stuff since I saw that Gene Wilder horror picture back in the seventies about this chocolate factory; full of nightmares and third-world child labor. It certainly succeeds in chilling the spine something fierce, _whoof_."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory?"

He shuddered and took a long drag of his cigar. "Chills. To – this – day. Somethin' about strange guys in long coats, a stick in one hand and his power over you in the other, with the glassy blue eyes of a creepy porcelain doll…" Terror grew on his face as recollection pulled him in, until he started out of it abruptly, "Especially in that one scene where he's slowly approaching, slowly approaching…"

As he trailed off, the racket of the room began to calm when the slow click-clacking of approaching feet echoed through the doors and flowed into every open ear, one by one silencing students and seducing their attention to it. The newcomer opened the doors and stood by them as he absorbed the theater at large. The red head he sat next to dropped the Curly Wurly onto the desk she'd turned over her lap, hand paralyzed. Kramer sized up the stranger's long coat of a gentle tan, pointing stick in one hand, and glassy blue eyes – which stopped on him. He choked out a terrified breath.

"Oh_ mama!_" Kramer wheezed, petrified so much that he, for a split second, accidentally slipped the burning end of the cigar into his mouth.

* * *

Twenty minutes ago, that pointing stick was being used in its designed purpose and was pointing to a whiteboard. On one end was not Castiel's hand, but Professor's. The former was the audience.

"Remember the three S's. Be _strict_, be _smart_, and be _superior_," he thwacked the stick against each written word for emphasis, "which means you _tell_ them silence is required in the classroom, and you maneuver their trains of thought to arrive at the right answer, and most of all, you let them know who's boss. Which, heh, is similar to being strict, but you're entitled to being a little condescending."

Although Professor beamed, Castiel saw nothing pleasant about this yet. "I'm beginning to doubt my commitment to this."

Professor scowled melodramatically at him. "What kind of angel are you?"

"I'm the Angel of Thursday," he replied truthfully.

For a few moments, Professor was without the slightest of what to do with that. "Oookay, then be the angel of –" he fumbled for the timetable, squinting at it, "– ofofof Room _B12!_ In fact – no, you are a _god_ to these people. Taking orders from, you know, _the _God must have had i–its influences, indubitably?"

Castiel tilted his head, unable to see eye to eye on that opinion. "Angels are not impressionable."

"Castiel, come on, just relax!" he groused shrilly, patience breaking, "Frankly, I–I don't care if you go in there and, and, and pull an Oprah by gifting them with Bibles hidden underneath their seats!" Steering the angel out of his staff room by the shoulders, he obliged the pointing stick into his hand and painfully locked eyes with him. "I just need you _in_ the room!"

"Audrey is in your class?"

The random question had Professor reeling back, as if slapped in the face, before recovering with uncertainty. "Um. Yeah? Sh–she is. Why do you, uh, ask?"

It was a move driven purely by his subconscious when he began to smack the pointing stick into the palm of his free hand, gaze drifting far and spiraling darkly downward.

"Just curious," he replied, his tone ambiguous.

* * *

"Good-afternoon," he opened, standing behind the mahogany desk that lead the lecture theater, but not taking his seat. "My name is Castiel. I will be conducting your lesson today."

"Where's Professor?" asked a voice.

"Your professor has been called to an emergency and has requested that I oversee his class."

"What kind of emergency?" asked another.

"His concerns are neither yours nor mine," he said bluntly. During the entire exchange, his eyes were on Audrey in the first row, who was giving him double, triple, quadruple-takes. Focus was broken when, beyond that visual priority, he detected movement. A young man airing the classic "I'm too cool for school" quality, despite being enrolled in nonmandatory tertiary education, had risen to his feet, swung his backpack over a shoulder and already had one foot on the steps. Castiel narrowed his eyes and swiftly but composedly moved to stand at the bottom of these steps.

_Be strict._ "Where are _you_ going?"

The boy chuckled dismissively, but stopped his descent. "You're a sub, you're here to babysit."

_Be smart._ Castiel cocked his head owlishly. "When you say "sub", you mean one of three things." Slowly, he ascended the steps towards him. "You are saying that I'm either a submarine sandwich, a subscription or a substitute. I was personally entrusted by your professor with the role as your substitute professor, not a babysitter."

It wasn't until he reached the step just below the boy that it became apparent as to how short this young man was. Even from less elevation, Castiel _still_ had height over him. In a blink of an eye, the pointing stick had darted up and pressed against the boy's chin, directing his head to look up at the angel.

_Be superior._ "I suggest you sit down, be quiet and learn something, because if the reality has yet to enter your mind, I've declared myself as your substitute teacher, which implies that I am effectively teaching and that you are learning. I'm not a lecturer, and before you speak, keep in mind that I'm not lecturing you at all right now. Because you've learned something. What's a sub?"

"A submarine sandwich, a subscription or a substitute," came the boy's mechanical response.

A ghost of a smile touched Castiel's lips as he lowered the pointing stick sparingly. "Take your seat."

Not until the boy had compliantly reclaimed his seat with what dignity he was left with, Castiel began to descend the steps.

"It's been illuminated to me, by your professor, that this lesson has been specially arranged for your sake, in preparation for exams to come." Reaching the front, he turned back to his riveted audience, almost as though luring them into a climactic punchline. "Proceed to do so at your own pace, in silence."

Up until then, his confidence had truly been empty, concealed by a mask of authority he knew how to wear well, but it filled when his words were obeyed automatically and everyone progressed into their work. If only the Winchester brothers were this cooperative. All worked except for, well, understandably, Audrey. The infinity-takes had ended and she simply stared at him, her mouth making an 'o' of complete and utter loss. Her gaze was held and returned quizzically as he sat back against the desk, like an artist assessing his work.

"Heya Chief, Mister Professor Sir —" Fingers snapped in his direction, urging Castiel's attention to Kramer, who had since overcome his irrational fear of him. After being prompted with an expectant look, he asked, "How do you spell 'peripheral'?"

"P–E–R–I–P–H–E–R–A–L. Peripheral."

Kramer's head was bowed, nodding vehemently as he scribbled away. "I gotcha, I gotcha. Right. So, P…?"

Was that _all_ he managed to retain from that? Castiel nearly rolled his eyes. "P–E–R–I–P–H–E–R–A–L."

"Yahtzee, baby, yahtzee, it's in the bag – so, P–E…?"

"I will write it down," he practically grumbled, turning around and moving toward the whiteboard, picking up a marker along the way.

He began spelling out the word on the board when he sensed an impending flying object. Just like the moment he had obstructed Bobby's attack the first night he had met him and Dean, with his right hand still writing on the board, his left briskly reached over his right shoulder and, dead on time, caught the ball of paper that had been launched to hit him. Students gasped.

Without even turning, and while pointing a finger at the offender and still holding the paper ball, he said, "Audrey James Hathaway, I'd like to see you after class."

The class rumbled with awed murmurs and giggles as he turned, locking eyes with her only briefly before she turned to address the tier of students above her regarding her middle name ("It's just Jane with an 'm', and plural, big deal!"). As the class resumed work, he descended into his seat, unfurling the ball of paper. Written on it was "WHAT THE FUCK R U DOING HERE?".

Eyebrows knitting at her colorful language, he rolled it back up and tossed it into the wastebasket under the desk. He calmly clasped his hands on the desk, looking up and straight at her, knowing her eyes would already be on him and that their gazes would lock when he did. Thrown at him with an equal amount of exertion as the paper ball was an expression and a shrug, together wordlessly reiterating what she had written down. In response, he frowned and tilted his head innocently at her, as though finding her confusion to be misplaced.

Next to her, Kramer started poking her arm.

"Hey, kiddo, you got a pencil sharpener?" he asked, holding up a pencil that had already been honed down to a nub, yet still visibly indented with bite marks.

"Um, yeah sure, I have one just —"

"Miss Hathaway," Castiel addressed, an admonishing edge in his tone, not loud yet still carrying, "Do you misunderstand the concept of silence?"

Her mouth opened and closed dumbly, startled at being addressed this way. "I…" Indignity hit her belatedly and she inflated with umbrage. "… was just giving him a pencil sharpener, chill!"

He rose to his feet, head cocked curtly as though mishearing. "Are you talking back to me?" he asked, approaching her.

"It is calle-_d_ –" the 'd' popped in annoyance as he drew closer, "– replying!"

"I do no-_t_ –" he mimicked her accentuation, "– appreciate," he placed his hands on her desk, one still gripping the pointing stick, and invaded her personal space, "your impertinence."

To the casual eye, they were simply staring each other down from a very close proximity. To their own eyes, they could see the burning hunger banked behind them, a fire without a flame. Also, the restraint they pulled over it, quelling that fire but not hiding the smolder at all. Its presence could not be denied if later mentioned, but presently, it could not be acknowledged, let alone acted upon. Before that barricade could and would crumble, Kramer came to their rescue, clearing the mist for them.

"And, uh, technically," he leaned into their frame of view to interject his message, "you haven't given me the pencil sharpener yet, so —" He nodded down at the object in her hands, his subtext plain.

While her focus was on him, Castiel apprehended the folder on her desk, to which she instantly protested. "Hey!"

Flicking through some pages, he frowned. "You've managed considerable work within such a brief period. That's admirable."

"Er, thanks?"

His scowl at her could easily be mistaken for a painfully studious regard as he snapped the folder shut a little harshly. With his next question, the conversation began to resemble that of a lover's spat.

"Do other intellectual avenues of your life not satisfy you?"

There was an empty moment before she fell in line with the implication weaved into his words, and the garish bewilderment on her face waned into something rueful.

"They satisfy me in a _different_ way!"

"It should be sufficient," he muttered with a bit of a huff, denying her his regard.

"There's just a part of me this can reach that the other can't!"

"How long, Miss Hathaway?" he demanded, almost querulously, like a housewife to their husband who had, once again, arrived home late and drunk, still not looking at her and rather waiting for the words themselves, "How long?"

"Just 'til the middle of May!" When it didn't appear to appease him, she frantically threw in, "I–I'll be thinking of my other intellectual avenues the entire time!"

"That doesn't make you any less promiscuous," he said with a decided sharpness. Her brow puckered at this, and he quickly added to clarify, "Intellectually."

Her confused frown disappeared into her rueful gaze again. "You know I love my consultations with other avenues." At this point, every other student in the room did not know what the hell they were talking about. Save for Kramer, who was, ironically, the only one devoting themselves to their work.

"I'm certain those are words you recite for all of them." Blinking sullenly, Castiel turned around and returned to his desk, leaving Audrey about to reply to nothing but air. With a sigh, her hands dropped onto the desk in defeat, and Kramer saw her silence as an opportunity to put in a remark.

"Teach is a bit of a nut, am I right?" he snorted, nodding vigorously.

"Talking back at the professor," deadpanned a student, Sheldon Cooper, from the row behind them. "Oh, you better believe that's a paddlin'." While Kramer wheezed with laugher and slapped Audrey on the arm to join him, she crossed her arms and sulked silently in her seat.

* * *

The clock struck one. Silence. When the clock struck quarter past one, a hand was hesitantly raised from the farthest row.

"Um. Sir? Can we go now?"

Castiel tore his focus away from Audrey, who had also started out of her focus on her paper, and glanced up to the young woman in the back row. It was then that he took in all the pairs of eyes that were observing him, awaiting some form of indication to leave. Oh. It was past one o'clock. It was time to dismiss them.

With a nod, he uttered a simple, "You may go," which was noticeably received with some unfamiliarity, having all been accustomed to hearing "Class dismissed!" from their usual professor. The students cleared the room in a typical New York City rush, but he paid little attention to it as he watched Audrey approach his desk, hugging her folder against her chest.

Blinking dispassionately, irony laced through her dry tone when she spoke. "You wanted to see me, professor?"

The humor of the situation pricked at his lips to smile, but he didn't. "You are probably wondering why I am here and Professor is not."

"Mmno, it barely crossed my mind."

Her sarcasm was ignored. "He is currently having a personal crisis that could not be deferred for his professional life."

"Okay," she nodded, following so far, frowning anxiously for Professor's sake, "that _does_ explain his absence, but why are _you_ here?"

He had had the whole hour to prepare for this conversation. "He recalled me being a professor and how well I was able to intrigue a class, so he requested my services."

The anxious frown soured into perplexity. "But, wait, no – you're not a _real_ professor. That was a whopper of my own!" Her eyes narrowed. "Unless… you really _are_ one?"

"No, I am not. But I was permitted regardless."

This appeared to disturb her. "NYU's gotta sort out their safety measures," she mumbled reproachfully, "Not that you're dangerous, but as far as I know, you're not qualified. And isn't this like, illegal?"

"I have enough pull over certain things that automatically grants me allowances."

Though without the intention to, his words translated to complacency, indicated by her wry smile. "Ah, that's right. You're "powerful"."

Pleased to have navigated her away from his deception, the sternness of his eyes moderated. "On another matter," he went on; there was a pregnant pause as he blinked and locked eyes with her, ensuring she noticed the change in his, "you must understand that I'd believed it was my wisdom that lured you to me and how much I value that."

The change of topic was abrupt but she adapted quickly without grievance. "It was," she replied lightly, despite her engrossed gaze, "But I'm not gonna stop expanding my mind, which means, naturally, I'm gonna be lookin' into outlets beyond, well, you. It's nothing personal. You haven't lost my attention, but you have to accept that…" she paused to frown, doubting the discretion of her words, "… that I don't surround myself around you," she smiled to quell any offense her words may cause, "as compelling as you are."

A frown appeared as his eyes lowered, not from offense, but at himself. She was being reasonable, while he had been unreasonably possessive.

"I see," he murmured humbly. Her eyes were on him, and when he felt less of a weight in them, he glanced up at her. She was smiling. "What?"

"You are one of a kind, Cas," she mused, the smile pleasantly audible in her tone, "Men don't agonize over these kind of things. No, actually, the average _person_ doesn't even do that. Oh no, don't be ashamed," she quickly added in the appearance of his chagrin, "I'm not faulting you. It's… _nice_, is all."

Nice. She hadn't forgotten one of their earliest conversations. He had to smile a little at that. It didn't last long as the guilt he delayed feeling crept up on him. It was tormenting enough to have to continuously maneuver her away from the truth, but now to have Professor in tow with his deceit? She didn't deserve this. His internal conflict must have been noticeable in the seconds that passed.

"What's wrong?" she asked. Something resembling comprehension washed over her suddenly. "Ohhh, I see what's getting to you."

His eyes flared to her, apprehension rising. "How is that possible?"

The question went through one ear and out the other as she seemed fully focused on whatever she had gleaned. "I know, I know," she sighed, languidly teetering around the desk until she sat herself on it right in front of him, setting aside her folder, "I know what you're thinking, and yes, yes Castiel, it _does_ suck that we can't mess around in my apartment –" she was unmindful of the way he relaxed at this, curiosity settling to replace his apprehension, "and, actually, I'm not too sure when my dad leaves. He tends to tell me he's visiting but never passes on a departure date," she mused.

Her legs swung idly over the side of the desk as she chewed over that for longer. An idea materializing, her eyes flashed wickedly. "Hey… how 'bout _your_ place? I've never been to your place."

_That_ look in her eyes had him pinned to his seat with interest, until that proposal was made. "I'm… not permitted guests," he replied awkwardly.

"Why? Elitist property?"

"… yes."

Her nose wrinkled in displeasure. "That's stupid. Cockblocking real estate is what that is. Oh well." She began to idly draw her finger over the swirly patterns on the wooden desk, seemingly in her own little world, but when she spoke, it seemed her thoughts had been revolving inward. "But then again," she lowly pressed on, "why limit ourselves to the places we live?"

The finger stopped drawing and she caught his eye, coyly locking it. Her implication projected onto him somewhat, but he was unsure of, yet not opposed to, her immediate plans. Her hand flew up and freed her hair from the ponytail it had been knitted in, flourishing her hair in that classic attempt of seductiveness, which comically fell flat as she had forgotten about about the fluffy pens she had needled into it. She merely shrugged when they all flew out and landed on the floor.

It was when his regard momentarily went to those pens that she pounced on him on the seat, nearly sending it toppling backwards. Comfortably straddling him, she kissed him commandingly. By now, it had become a natural instinct for him to forgo cognition and simply respond in kind. Her tongue darted across his lips, but she did not yet see it through to another kiss as she pulled back instead.

"This," she kissed him again, ripping down his trench coat until it bunched at his elbows, "will be," another kiss as a hand sidled down his chest, and he bucked when it pressed down on him, "_quick_."

Lingering somewhere was the urge to touch her in like manner, but his body concentrated greedily on her hand's position. When she smiled at his reaction, he struggled his most authoritative tone.

"Audrey…" Unfortunately it emerged as a moan since her hand began to apply maddening friction through the fabric. He was further disarmed when her lips took his in a way that physically conveyed something, a message that traveled downward. Then she stopped everything. Under her, his body tingled with sensitivity. There was a very still silence as her mouth hovered over his. And then, in the respite, the almost deafening, thrilling, _indicative_ sound of a zipper being pulled down, and it was only when her hand closed around _him_ that he could fully register that it had been his.

His hand lashed out to grip the wrist of her offending (but really, it wasn't) hand, not to remove but to secure her there, as his eyes glowed to her what he was unable to say, finding himself at a verbal loss. Her roguish chuckle blew hotly against his lips. Abruptly, she inclined away from him slightly to fix him with a look of studious thought.

"You know what I've never done before?" she questioned, abruptly conversational, as though physically torturing him was just a minor occurrence.

A mixture of confusion, impatience and a burgeoning foreign feeling was in his scowl. "What's that?"

The perky innocence of her face did not match her answer, at all. "Blown a teacher."

For once not ignorant to such vernacular, he gasped, and she took his open mouth as an invitation to place hers over his, touching his tongue briefly with hers before trailing it down his chin, down his neck, all the while never losing momentum in her direct foray. Already sensitive to this myriad of sensations, it was beginning to overwhelm him, as the slow burn didn't seem so slow anymore.

Then it began. And he started to panic.

No. Something was happening. This wasn't right. Oh no. Not now. Not now. Too early. Too early! TOO EARLY! TOO —

…

When he opened his eyes, Audrey was staring back at him with wide-eyed incredulity, completely still. Her gaze timorously fell downwards, at her hand buried beneath all that fabric.

"Oh my God." He was horrified for reasons he didn't yet understand when she gaped back up at him. "Did you just —" He gave her a pained look. It worsened when she began to laugh.

He wanted to flee and he still didn't know why. There was strange sort of shame that came with what he had just done. He couldn't leave because a) she was on top of him, and b) she still had a hold of him. Her laughter didn't make her presence any more pleasant though. Reading this on his face, she stopped herself short.

"I'm sorry, I'm not laughing." Her contrived sobriety rapidly deteriorated. "I'm not laaau-ha-ha-hahaha—"

He could not just sit there and let her laugh away his dignity! Though, he had to grant, little dignity came with having a woman's hand down one's pants and then prematurely reacting to her efforts. When he made a fruitless attempt to move, she stopped him, finally managing the grace to stop her laughter too.

"Okay, seriously, I'll stop now." Though she didn't laugh, she grinned. "And it's okay!" Her free hand cupped his face sympathetically. "It happens to a lot of guys. Especially if it's been a while."

Or, ever.

"Let's assess the damage here." Before the words could register, she had wrested his pants down just enough to, well, investigate. This was so, so, _so_ undignified. Humiliation was forgotten the moment she made a hummed sound of … _delight?_ at the sight of him. Hoping clarification (supposedly, but not limited to, that of the verbal sort) would follow, he eyed her fiercely, but instead, after she rummaged through the pockets of her blazer, she merely glanced up at him.

"You got a napkin?" she inquired breezily, but his vehement gaze did not falter. "No? Huh. Looks like you're in a bit of a pickle."

Following that remark, he wished she would simply zip him back up and move off of him. Instead, she scanned the room around them.

"Well then," she began airily, looking back at him, and he did not trust that gleam in her eyes, "I guess that means this'll have to be done –" her tone darkened suddenly (and correction, he very much liked that gleam in her eyes), "– the old-fashioned way."

* * *

Ten minutes later, a fire engine red head emerged from the lecture theater alone, looking immensely proud of herself, flicking a thumb over the corner of her lips to clean off the wetness there. She stopped in her tracks suddenly, surprised to find Kramer waiting for her around the bend.

"Hey, is the teach in there?" he asked skittishly, holding up the plank of wood, "I wanna return the desk I accidentally stole."

It would forever remain a mystery as to how he managed to pry it from its hinges without even knowing. Her mouth opened and closed in amusement.

"Um. Yeah! He is. But! He's, uh, cleaning up for his next class and he needs to be alone for that. To him, to be interrupted in that is like… being caught with his pants down!"

Together, they laughed heartily, Kramer very much oblivious to her literalness, and with that, they left.

* * *

Gosh, M ratings are fun. Also, did _no one_ get where "Monk's Cafe" was from in the previous chapter? I am disappoint. And I understand Sheldon Cooper lives in California, but hey, he relates to the physics course! Which, by the way, requires a monumental suspension of belief when it comes to how Kramer, of all people, got enrolled into the class.

Read and review :)


	36. How I Met Your Father

New York Public Library. Wednesday, 7:04PM. A time for local college students to take advantage of the library's extended hours. Them, and Professor.

And apparently, Castiel, too, who entered the famed Rose Main Reading Room, spotted Professor at a table nearby and progressed to him. His shadow stretched over Professor's back and, suspecting the angel's presence, he froze under it. Twisting around in his seat to confirm, the chair screeched obnoxiously when he jolted from it, wobbled his knees to the floor and proceeded to bow down to him.

"Oh my God," he choked out as he did this, "I–I mean to say, oh my _messenger_ of God! Divine being – paragon o–of virtue —!"

Loath to the growing attention they was garnering, Castiel firmly took him by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet.

"Stop that," he growled quietly, steering him back into his seat, "Sit down." Taking the seat opposite him, he folded his hands on the table in a show of profound gravity. "What have you decided?"

Sighing, Professor pinched away his glasses to rub the exhaustion from his eyes. "I don't have a clue, I really don't." Replacing them on the bridge of his nose, he gestured slackly towards the jumble of books between them. "I honestly thought some insight w–would come with reading the Bible and, and brushing up on Christianity and God, but I'm scattered, completely scattered." His mouth opened and closed abruptly, reining back the urge to gratuitously enlarge on that, before donning a conflicted look. "I–I _know_ you said I don't owe Him anything, but I feel like I should do _something_."

"This is why we refrain to be forthcoming about our existence," Castiel said grimly, "A misplaced sense of obligation would rise in mankind. A sense so great that it is liable to plague." His sternness eased a fraction. "Again, I apologize for bringing this upon you, but you mustn't define yourself with God." The faintest smile appeared. "That's our job."

"A–and what about mine? How could I possibly educate wh–when I now have an argument for much bigger things?"

"Faith is not an argument. Science and faith are mutually exclusive. You must grow to adjust." In the silence that followed, he was privy to only the doubts he could see boiling behind Professor's eyes, so he pressed on, seeking to bring that boil to a clarifying calm. "Difficult as it may be to carry on with your life as though still unsuspecting of our existence, it must be done."

Professor's mouth pulled with reluctant agreement, humming acknowledgment finally.

Detecting detachment in that response, Castiel's eyes narrowed. "This is _no_ exaggeration," he said sharply, succeeding to restimulate focus in Professor, "You must act as though you've never known at all. If the worst were to happen and, say, your mother and father were to be critically injured, you cannot call for me and demand assistance." When Professor swallowed a lump in his throat, finally realizing the burden of all this, he added definitively, "Unless it were in God's will for them to live, my hands are tied."

It was instantly apparent that Professor knew this to be right yet groped for a way to avoid vocally admitting it, but to no avail. "_Fine_," he muttered, soft but loaded with shame.

As a small sign of gratitude, Castiel dipped his head slightly, but the grace of the move was tarnished when his eyes flicked aside, a flash of red earning his charm and reducing all solemnity. Oh no. Not here. Not now. She was his greatest distraction. He just couldn't escape her, could he? Professor, noticing the change, followed his gaze, but then swiftly looked away.

"I can't let her see me like this!" Professor squeaked, shuffling books about as if it would help any, before he simply pointedly avoided looking in her direction. Castiel, however, reacted differently.

Something rolled in the pit of his stomach (and perhaps further down) at the mere sight of her, and he seemed to inflate with anticipation. The last time he had seen her – about three days ago – she had, well, been in a position that catered to his comfort. And it had been … like nothing he had ever felt before. Wondrous. Magnificent. Transcendent. Alike to benediction. Beyond words a thesaurus could provide. And dammit if he wasn't determined to seek out that feeling again.

Of course, at the time, he had been unable to vocalize his sentiments as she had abandoned him straight after, but not before giving him a kiss on the lips that would normally be described as chaste, but considering what that pretty little mouth had just been doing —

"Look away!" Professor hissed when the angel did not immediately follow his attempts of inconspicuousness. Castiel stared on. "Look – _away!_"

"I can't," he murmured, enraptured. Clarity was slipping away fast and he blissfully allowed it to happen. Who knew the mind was the greatest erogenous zone?

As though hooked and reeled in by his regard, she turned in their direction, starting a bit when she spotted them. She approached their table, and by now, Professor was reluctantly inclined to acknowledge her presence. An uncertain little smile was offered back and forth between them.

"Hi. I, uh, didn't know you two actually hung out."

"W–we don't!" Professor blurted, but hastily recoiled, "Not… really. W–we just, ah, we just bumped into each other and, er, now he's teaching me all about, uh, you know, religion, and … stuff."

She squinted skeptically. "Uh huh. Oh, how's that existential crisis going?" she asked glibly, "Still planning on resigning from your prestigious teaching position to emulate Silas from The Da Vinci Code?"

Word must have gotten out and reached her about this, which, one would think, especially given her snide tone, would fluster Professor, but instead only irked him.

"Excuse you, Audrey," he replied prissily, "b–but _I_ have seen the light, or, uh, more precisely, the light came to me and removed the black spots of Atheism that have encompassed my eyes and starved my prefrontal cortex for far – too – long!"

Castiel broke away from the trance he had indulged himself in to throw Professor a dry look, which was quick to waver under Audrey's incredulous regard.

"What have you_ done_ to him?" she asked, partly in jest. Before he could reply, she pivoted around, searching the room. "Where_ is_ he?"

"Who?" Castiel asked.

"My dad," she absently replied, before fixing impassioned attention onto him. "I am _so_ glad I ran into you! Now you can meet him!" His initial reaction was that of dread, but the sudden reemergence of _that_ gleam in her eye – the very gleam seen in them those days before – denied him a moment to weather it. "And since I don't plan on doing this _in front_ of my father later —" Taking his face in her hands, she kissed him lewdly, with lips, teeth and lots and lots of that achingly clever tongue … was she deliberating being evocative of _that_ incident? Without a doubt.

After ripping away from him, she casually sashayed out the room the way she came. Castiel, who had had trouble keeping pace that time, sat there motionless; near-expressionless on the outside, inflamed hunger on the inside. Clarity hit hard when, within his dizzying reverie, his gaze wandered onto Professor.

Gaping like a fish that was being suffocated, Professor's hands quivered up to illustrate before he even starting speaking. "What … in the name of the Knights who say Ni … _was that?_" He allowed no beat for a reply. "A–are you allowed to, uh, to engage in, in, in such congress with a human? Or, more importantly, does she even _know_ about you?"

As they usually did whenever this was broached, his eyes lowered with guilt. "No." He peered up at him gravely. "I would appreciate it if you didn't tell her."

Professor blinked owlishly at him, and though he didn't overtly agree to that, he sighed, "If there was one aspect of humanity I wished you could understand, it would be this British television series from the seventies called Fawlty Towers. That way, you'd, ah, get an idea of how lying to sustain another lie to sustain another and so forth," as he rose to his feet, he closed with a shrewd look, "never ends harmoniously." He was leaving, but first, he smiled sympathetically at him. "Let this be a trial run, Castiel. However way you handled my situation, maybe you can do better when you tell her."

And with a tight, cynical smile, Professor turned and left the room. As he retreated, polite glances were exchanged with Audrey, who reentered and strode towards Castiel.

"Daddy's in the map room. He'll be there for a while. He loooves maps." She took his hand, drawing him to his feet. "Come with me, you. I wanna find a book."

His mind was elsewhere as she towed him upstairs, to the balconies which framed and overlooked the entire reading room. Understandably so; he could not view Audrey without it going in that direction of which she chose to take on him those days ago: down. Once she let go of his hand to rifle through the bookshelves, he spoke.

"Audrey."

"Yeeeah?"

Lingering at the corner as she browsed, he asked, "Are we not going to discuss what happened?"

Although she didn't look at him, there was the tiniest lift at the corners of her lips. "What's there to discuss? I went down my knees and worshiped at the altar – I'm not denying it. Why?"

When he didn't reply immediately, he expected her to look at him, but she didn't. At length, he gingerly answered, "I feel obligated to you on some level."

The tiniest lift became a full smirk. "That's a given, Cas," she eyed him obliquely, tone darkening, "I have yet to get mine. When we have some alone time, you may remedy that little dilemma," even her oblique gaze darkened similarly, her words slowing for him to feel the heavy weight of suggestion, "in _any_ way … you see fit."

He watched her break away from that deeply implicated exchange to dip into another shelf. She was such a minx, and she knew it. Up until then, he had been contentedly submissive to her. Allowed the astute part of his mind to rest from its toils on the battlefield, and male sensibility to take over. She knew of his desire and lorded it over him. Gabriel was right. _But_. He, having "mentally probed" her some time ago, knew very well of her own desire too. So … why couldn't he play around with it, likewise? It was only fair. Oh, she had shaped herself a very, _very_ powerful opponent.

"We're alone now."

She stilled. Hesitantly, her head turned to him over her shoulder, finding him already closing the distance between them, eyes glowing with a challenge being met. She smiled tamely.

"Castiel…" Though she demurred lamely, she was little adverse to when he touched her shoulder, motivating her to face him, and when she did, he gripped the sides of her face with both hands and brought her close, but not at their lips. Instinctively, the closeness compelled her to kiss him, but he curved his head, not indulging. He himself could feel his eyes dancing with something resembling flirtatiousness when she scowled up at him moodily, his face still a mere whisper from hers.

This was child's play compared to what she did the other day, but it achieved the desired effect nonetheless and proved that he had just as much of a pull over her as she did on him.

Walking her backwards into a shadowed corner, he decided to meet one of the more unusual demands he had extracted from her mind. His lips breathed hotly down to her neck, locating the coveted position, and then he bit her. She became liquid in his hands (oh, the irony), practically swooning into him as she muffled a moan into his chest. Her head kneaded anxiously into him, wordlessly coaxing for more of his attention, but when something _somehow_ managed to catch her eye through the mist, she shoved him away like a broken toy.

"I found it!" she intoned triumphantly, pulling out a book within reach. His initial intention was to resume activity as he closed in on her, but his desire abated when he noted her sudden melancholy.

"Is something the matter?" he asked, watching her stroke the cover of the book plaintively.

Cradling it, she peered up at him sadly. "I wish I was a kid again."

His gaze fell to the book, having yet to glimpse the title and wondering what could have prompted this change of mood. "Why?"

She fixed him with a searching gaze. "Do you like being an adult?"

"I've never given it considerable thought." Because he technically wasn't one at all.

"You don't miss being a kid?" she asked, unconvinced, before glowering, "I hate responsibility. For everything! I just wanna have fun, you know? I don't want to handle hundreds of different types of insurance, I don't want to pay for bills and taxes and fees, I don't want to sign official documents, I don't want to vote in elections —"

"You want to do whatever you please," he concluded.

Ambling toward him, she smiled sheepishly. "I know that sounds selfish, but if I could have that freedom I would never ever ask for anything more, ever again. These days, people live their lives, trying to climb to the top, however high they've set their goal … and I just wanna float." She stood before him, sheepish smile still in effect, as if acknowledging herself how silly she sounded. Again, his gaze fell to the book in her clutches, and gently removed it from her. _Peter Pan._

"I wish Neverland was real," she sighed wistfully, looping her arm through his in their usual way, and navigating them around to face the window, of which she pointed out of. "Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning!" she quoted merrily. A bashful smile. "You know, when I grew up, all the girls wanted to live out the quintessential fairytale. They may not admit it, but however unconventional their fantasies were, the notion of meeting someone perfect and living happily ever after is essentially what they wanted." A nod towards the book in his hands. "My dreams took to Peter Pan. I didn't wanna grow up. Still don't. I just want to," she made a sinuous gesture, "exist happily. In Neverland."

Existing forever in a different reality? Sounded familiar. "Perhaps _Heaven_ could substitute."

Her eyes narrowed at him, not suspiciously but studiously. "I think … Neverland was like J. M. Barrie's version of Heaven. I mean, it's up in the sky, for starters, you can do whatever you want, and never grow old. And don't get me started on fairies. I think those were his understudies for angels." At this, Castiel gave the book in his hand the side-eye. "Maybe he was a devout Christian? That would explain the line, "I do believe in fairies! I do, I do!" Replace "fairies" with "angels" and you got yourself a raging declaration of religious belief."

"And," he began with caution, doing his utmost not to seem too pressing with his question, "do _you_ believe in fairies?"

Her lips puckered contemplatively. "I'd like to. I'd have to meet one first."

Damn. That shifted responsibility onto him again. He frowned adversely at her. "Was it not of the author's intention to glorify the fact that one does not have to see things to believe in them?" he asked with a near-disdainful air. Her eyes stirred, but no thoughts moved with them. He pressed on, "Why is it so difficult for you to believe in Heaven? In your judgment, isn't Neverland just as fictional as Heaven? Why would you want to believe one more than the other?"

Her head bobbed back and forth, recognizing this to be a sound point. "Because … I guess I grasp more on to Neverland because I know its creator existed."

"That does not make Neverland any more real."

"But God," she hesitated, contrite with her words but otherwise not knowing how else to explain herself, "isn't real … so the whole concept of Heaven," and she knew this would sting, "… is a lie."

"So is Neverland," he countered, an edge rising in his tone.

"In this case, there is a line between fiction and a lie. It's a fine line but it's there. Peter Pan is fiction, made out to be fiction … God and all his glory is a lie, made out to be the most important thing in all of existence." Not wanting to see his response for that, she shut her eyes and shook her head, clearing further thought. "Let's stop right here before we start kicking dirt in each other's faces."

The scowl that had crept onto his face ebbed away as he gazed down at the book in his hands, studying its covers. "What is this about?"

Her face lurched with incredulity. "You've _never_ read Peter Pan?" A shake of his head. She took the book back, opening it to an illustration. "It's a story about a boy who can fly and never grows up."

His eyes darted at these details. "Is he an angel?"

When asked this, she paused in her idle perusal of the pages. "Uh-hum, _no_," she chuckled, amused by this, but sobered when an afterthought hit her, "Actually, I'm not sure _what_ he is. I _think_ he's human," she mused, knitting her brow, "Ran away from home or something and then met Tinkerbell –" she snapped back into focus, flicking through pages and stopping on another illustration, "– who is his fairy friend. Peter's everlasting childhood is spent in a place called Neverland –" she indicated a picture of Peter Pan pointing to the sky, and then did so herself, "and there he is the leader of a gang called the Lost Boys. At night, Peter frequents the Darling household to listen in on the bedtime stories Mrs. Darling would tell her children, John, Michael and of course," she beamed, clearly partial to the next character, "Wendy! One night, he's spotted, and he loses his shadow when he tries to escape."

"It's impossible to lose your shadow."

"It's a kid's story, bear with it," she waved a hand dismissively. She continued, "When he came back another night to retrieve it, he accidentally wakes Wendy, who then reattaches his shadow for him. It's then learned that Wendy knows of many bedtime stories, so Peter invites her to Neverland, to play mother to the Lost Boys."

He eyed the book critically. "That is a strange story."

"I find it strangely romantic," she replied, smiling unabashedly, "A magical boy from the skies, in a way, always watching over you," she enthused, embracing the book to her chest and gazing, starry-eyed, up and out the window, "who then whisks you away in the dead of night to a magical place." She sideways caught his eye and grinned. "It's so cute, because he's so naive. Wendy offers to give him a kiss, and do you know what he does?"

"What?"

"He holds out his hand! So, instead, she puts a thimble in his hand. Then, "thimble" becomes a euphemism for a kiss." She smiled fondly and distantly at this, then at him.

Magical boy from the "magical place" in the "sky" who could take to the air? Always watching over a human girl? Leader of a "gang"? Naive? This was awkward.

Startling him in the lull, the book snapped shut as _that_ gleam in her eye reappeared. "Now," she tucked the book under her arm and checked her nonexistent wristwatch, "we are going to meet the man of whom I am the genetic offspring of. Let's keep this PG rated," she told him as she adjusted his tie, "My father's gonna love you." She guided him back down the stairs and headed for the main hall.

"Audrey."

"Castiel?" she echoed.

"If I recall correctly, you've already introduced me to your father. As your friend."

"Oh. Right. Yeah, he totally thinks you're just my friend, so, restrain yourself."

"That instruction is ironic when it emerges from you."

Rounding the corner towards the elevator, she stopped him with a kiss on the lips. "Don't sass me tonight, Castiel, I find that sexy."

* * *

All vestiges of unease left him the moment they entered the library's Map Division and stumbled upon her father, who seemed to have as much of a penchant for tweed suits as Audrey did for jazzy miniskirts, showing off to the giggling, middle-aged clerks his surviving ability to perform the shopping cart dance move of the eighties. Inevitably, Audrey had to fall heir to _someone's_ eccentricity.

"Daddy?" she called, capering into the room with the angel in tow, "This," she gently brought him forward, then thrust him the rest of the way, "is Castiel."

With great ceremony, Castiel said, "It's an honor to meet you."

For five solid seconds, her father beset him with a dubious eye, before exploding like a balloon with an energy he hadn't expected him to show.

"CASTIEL!" he raved, throwing his hands in the air and landing them on the angel's shoulders, mystifying him even more than he already was, "Such a regal beauty of a name you possess, Castiel! A thing of fantasy novels, it is! If I hadn't been so patently stable enough to have shown these lovely ladies my inner Baryshnikov, I would have believed you to be a mere pigment of my imagination!"

"I believe the correct phrase is "_figment_ of my imagination"."

"D'oh, yes, of course, of course. Though, dare I say, pigment sounds abundantly more poetic, wouldn't you agree?" His arm wreathed around the angel's shoulder, while the other flourished about in the air illustratively. "You, Castiel, epitomize a lone pigment of the proverbial rainbow that is I, James Walter Hathaway; a rainbow encompassing such brilliant, rich and admittedly vaguely boastful colors such as Clever Crimson, Witty White, Eccentric Emerald, and let's not forget that dashing Gregarious Green! Why, these colors constitute the very palette of a cunning fox's ejected stomach matter!"

In any other situation, Castiel would have immediately suspected a case of spirit possession. Since this old English oddity was Audrey's progenitor – with double any peculiarities she may have inherited from him; the Xenophilius to her Luna – this was all understandable, but nonetheless startling. Walter seemed to sense this internal response and released his hold of him, humbly stepping away.

"I _do_ apologize, I have an awful habit of striking terror into most. I find it hard to refrain from being my usual rather startling, prattling, incredibly handsome self," his rueful expression was quick to grow sly when he glanced at Audrey, who smiled indolently at him. A second later, he was hustling them to sit at a table, him facing the pair of them ("Come, come!"), and was swift to commence what felt, to Castiel, like interrogation.

"Now, I do actually have one question readied for you, and worry not, I've asked this very same question to every single boy my Audrey has met since she was knee high to a pig's eye and befriended a young Spencer appropriately-surnamed Pratt." He pulled a theatrically grim face at Audrey. "Shan't be having another little fluff up like that again, hm?"

A dutiful shake of her head. "Nooope."

"You'd be amazed how often you Americans answer this incorrectly: what are the four countries of the United Kingdom?"

"England, Northern Ireland, Scotland and Wales," Castiel answered.

Walter reeled back a little. "My word, answered without so much of a blink!" The smile that had been faint now stretched from ear to ear. "You must be one of the brighter crayons in the box!"

"I'm not a crayon."

He guffawed, head thrown back. For someone nearing sixty, he had a lot of verve. "Oh, my word," he sighed, wiping away a tear before springing back to focus. "Ooh! That's a rather dapper looking trench coat you're sporting there. Wherever did you get it?"

"A closet."

He laughed harder. "Delightfully clever _and_ a laugh! Audrey, you ought to court this boy. I _encourage_ it!"

"Daddy," she demurely brushed her hair behind her ear, "you're embarrassing me."

"Oh, tish and pish to your chagrin, my dear," Walter playfully dismissed, "So! Castiel! Are you at all fond of maps?"

The abrupt change in topic threw him off for a second. "I don't hold an opinion of them."

"Ah. Well, I think maps are _brilliant_," Walter enthused, grinning, "Up there with sliced bread, if I may be so bold to say. It could be because that I have a tremendous passion for travel and —"

All focus abandoned him the moment he felt Audrey's hand creep into his lap under the table. So much for restraining herself. Eyes full of questions, he made an attempt to look at her without turning his head, finding her still paying close attention to whatever her father was saying. When nothing further occurred, he supposed she was just being affectionate, and after a minute, her hand retreated.

Somehow along the way, the conversation had already taken some erratic turns.

"— the most _outrageous_ pair of trousers I'd bought midway through the Reagan Administration, so you can only imagine how shocking they must appear! And not to mention the leather spats —"

Castiel bucked in his seat. Her hand had made another appearance, only this time, it had boldly went straight for home. He only vaguely perceived the slyness in her eyes before her father spoke out.

"Is everything alright there, Castiel? You look a bit flushed."

As her hand deliciously worked him, he wisely avoided the vocalization of the word "yes" and nodded instead. His eyes were begging to roll to the back of his head.

"Righto. As I was saying, the birds of Barcelona have _the_ most foul temperament, worse than the bloody staff of your AT&T branches —"

She coughed into her hand to mask the sound of the zipper she had tugged down with her other. His clasped hands on the table broke apart, one traveling up to smother his mouth but tried to pass off as a token of deep immersion in the conversation. For some reason, her father currently had his eyes closed and his arms outstretched forward, imitating either a blind man without an aid or a zombie, allowing Castiel the chance to finally shoot her his most scandalized look. She batted her eyelashes innocently. What was ensuing under the table was quite the opposite.

Suddenly, her father was chuckling. "Did you like that impression, Castiel?" he asked proudly.

"Yeah," Audrey concurred. She kneaded harder. "Did you like that?"

She was killing him. She was far more superior at this game than he was. He had been biting off more than he could chew.

With a strangled expression, he nodded. Walter beamed. "Can't say I'm surprised! My impression of a sleepwalking Margaret Thatcher never fails to charm a crowd," he chuckled, grinning fondly at Audrey, who nodded in agreement. "Anywhooo. Castiel! What's your opinion of our current economy?"

Hand still smothering his mouth, a low groan escaped as relief violently hit him. Walter nodded with a sort of displeased agreement.

"My sentiments exactly, Castiel. It truly is a rotten mess."

Audrey nodded compliantly, withdrawing her hand and folding it neatly in her lap. "Yes, yes, very messy."

As Walter sustained the conversational turbulence by launching into the subject of Wall Street (alternating between the financial district and the film), Castiel furtively gave her his most punishing look.

That was it. No more toying around. He had to have her.

* * *

Sorry for the late update. I finally got around to listening to Willow Smith's "Whip My Hair" and I've been distracted by it. Fiercest ten year old girl _ever_. It's totally Sam's theme song for S6.

Read and review :D


	37. One Way or Another

"I watched Yes Man with Nicky last night, and Zooey Deschanel was doing this thing where she jogs with a group of people while taking spontaneous snapshots at the same time. So, that's essentially what I'm doing, except –" After adjusting the roller-blades on her feet, she playfully kicked her legs to Castiel, a gesture he regarded with interest, "– I'm roller-blading! I've entitled the concept: Run, _Forrest,_" she motioned the surrounding post-winter foliage of Central Park, "Run!" She giggled, but quickly sobered. "I'm so clever. I should totally write for The Soup."

Her unabashed arrogance never failed to intrigue him. And while the reference flew over his head, logic didn't. "That makes no sense. You are not running."

She fixed him with a loudly pitying regard. "You're not cultivated enough to understand art, Castiel." He blinked with indolent amusement as she busied herself with her laces. "I actually phoned up one of my art professors from Columbia about this – I thought she'd like to know – but it turns out she's since left the place to pursue what came to be a very successful photography career in Paris, and she's become famous and everything and a millionaire too, so she couldn't come down to see me because she killed herself."

The unexpected punchline clouded his focus for a second, before he resumed watching with keen attention as she rose to her feet from the park bench they had been sharing.

To Castiel, aesthetics had always been a subsidiary aspect of his perception of humanity; always conscious of it, but never to a degree that it inhabited the foreground of his cognition. But, there was something … stimulating about her recurrent "short skirt and thigh high socks" combination. Her legs were always flaunting its form but only allowing the slightest visual taste of skin, rousing an inclination to see more.

No wonder he had a fondness for that part of her body. When something nice was half-packaged, who wouldn't long to reach out and unwrap the rest? And when an entity was as curious as he, lust acted as a hazardous hallucinogen that vacated all remaining sense. He groaned internally. He could feel his grace aching for her.

His eyes narrowed at a passing male jogger, who appeared to be of the same mind.

"Why do you dress the way you do?" asked Castiel. Pausing from her inspection of her camera, she lifted an eyebrow at him.

After an interested moment, she tartly questioned, "Do you have a problem?"

"I find myself having a problem with others looking at you the way I do."

To his surprise, his answer made her beam. "Oh!"

There was a note of achievement in that. Again, his eyes narrowed. "You do this on purpose," he concluded, a little bitterly.

"No!" she exclaimed, overtly indignant at this judgment, but rapidly subdued to cool indifference, "Not all the time. Perhaps that's weird to you, but I'm just not as formal or as staid as you are, with your humorless tan trench coat, generic excuse for a suit and perpetual game face. The only bold thing about you is your … bisexual hair." The humor in her eyes vanished as if never existed, and her fingers hovered as claws right above his head, tempted. "Which I could just … _pull_." Calming gingerly, she put on a smile. "But I won't."

As she turned away and smoothed out the creases on her pleated skirt, he stared at it, contemplating. "I've been … audacious in the past," he told her at great length.

"Not around me you haven't. I would know. I put the _Aud-_ in _aud_acious, Cas. In fact, the term was coined after me. I am my own prefix. True story."

Behind her, Castiel's eyes flashed up to her with the same subtext of a light bulb proverbially popping up above one's head. Audacity was what she sought, was it? Never underestimate the audacity of an angel. Especially one that had enough of it to have once rebelled against Heaven. If only she knew.

A little while later, she found him following her through the Ramble Arch, eyes glued to the hem of her skirt. She rolled around and skidded to a halt, facing him. "I didn't realize you were coming too?"

"Of course I am. I'm here to watch over you."

Straightening her spine, she spoke loftily, "I am comfortably agile in a pair of blades, thank you very much."

Once within arms' reach, he gripped her hips and lifted her an inch off the ground as though she weighed nothing. She squeaked an attempt at "What are you doing?" but was flustered further into dumbness when he carried and laid her back against the sloped stone behind her. His shadow extended over her until his body covered hers, hard against soft.

"That's not what I'm implying," he husked, smoothing his palms along her inner thighs, spreading them to encompass him over her. Her skirts always made this manner of conduct uncomplicated, and for that, he was grateful. Despite the astonishment in her wide eyes, she welcomed with a moan the assertive kiss he swooped in on her, more than happy to allow his tongue to conduct hers.

Seconds later, with a choked sound of reluctance, she pushed him a fraction away with all the effort she could summon on such short notice, panting.

"Oh God, what are you doing?" she demanded in a frantic hiss, "It may be secluded in this area but not deserted!"

"I'm sorry," he intoned dryly, not sorry at all, "Am I being too –" His fingers sidled up to press into her very intimately, eyes glowing with suggestion, "– audacious?"

Having been denied him for so long, she was overly sensitive to his intimate touch. Her lips parted for a silent moan as her head limply fell aside, lower body arching into his possession, receiving it in earnest. Even with closed eyes, she scowled intently, huffing with agitation at his precarious but not unpleasant provocation. Roller-blade clad feet crossed over the angel's back as she coiled internally.

A hand scrabbled its way to the back of his neck, wordlessly begging him to kiss her. Although he fulfilled this plea, she was far too fixated on his lower foray, too inundated by the pleasurable burn, to gather the means to appropriately reciprocate.

The heady pressure within her reduced her to one word, which was near-incoherently moaned against his mouth. "_More._"

"Tell me what you want." His words were not designed to translate as seduction, as he was genuinely curious, but his gruffness of tone had it received that way. It earned him an answer that mewled to him in graphic detail of what she wanted, inflected with the foulest language he had ever heard her use, which nearly sobered him with the novelty of it.

Cupping her chin with his free hand, he tilted her head forward, their temples meeting. "Your language is unbecoming," he growled, caressing her sensuously.

Her teeth flashed in a wicked little sneer before prodding him away with her knee. The distance allowed her to reach down and fumble with his belt in a ravenous frenzy.

"Foreplay … screw it … no more … I can't —" she muttered aimlessly, and in her desperation finding his belt unworkable, "Ugh, just get it off!"

"Manners, Audrey."

The look she shot him suggested she was not above socking him in the face. Instead, she clawed him back down to her, frustratingly seeking some form of compensatory release just by kissing. When it only fueled her appetite for more stimulation, she keened hopelessly beneath him.

All activity halted when something struck their heed.

"And coming up we have something that I believe resembles the lovely castles in your fairytale books: the Ramble Stone Arch," drifted a nearby voice.

"Ooooooooh," cooed the dreaded sound of approaching _children_.

They looked at each other, both now fully alert, before reeling up to their feet, adjusting themselves. As the children and honest to God _nuns_ strolled past, they were both unsurprisingly given glances that ranged from suspicious to naively inquisitive. One little girl actually pointed to Castiel and screamed that he was the travel guy on the bus, much to his chagrin and Audrey's entertainment. Sharing a meaningful glance as the children left, they relayed similar sentiments.

One way or another, they _would_ get each other. And that was Attempt Number One.

* * *

Attempt Number Two occurred one night later.

Castiel threw her back against the double door refrigerator, not hard enough to bruise but enough to earn his place as authority, and slammed his mouth down on hers. Her instinct to convey confusion retreated and she responded in fervor instead. Reasonably, clarity soon somehow compelled her through the haze.

"What are you —" A gasp broke from her when he made one of those moves that elicited the mental commentary of "_Hello!_", when he latched his hands onto that elusive region wherein her legs began, lifting her so these very legs wrapped around his waist. Words had yet to leave him since he had barged into her apartment after one knock and pulled her into the kitchen.

It was for certain now: he wanted to, for the lack of a more fitting phrase, be intimate with her. The phrase was not entirely fitting as it had romantic, saccharine connotations, when he had concluded that Audrey found the act and its subdivisions to simply be recreational. Another reason why that phrase was not fitting was because romantic, saccharine moments did _not_ ensue against refrigerators.

Her skirt was unlike her familiar ones, which flared. This one hugged her form, which he found to be unaccommodating. As he obliged her into another demanding kiss that impacted her head against the refrigerator (which, by the sound she made, she morbidly took pleasure in), he unceremoniously shoved the material up to bundle around her waist. No underwear. My, _my_.

This carnal urgency of his extinguished all remaining austerity he possessed. Also, perhaps, a few traces of common sense – her father and his friends were outside, sitting on the balcony! Although she generally welcomed this ambush, there was a slight rigidity to her conduct that informed him that she was painfully aware of exactly that.

So. Run to a base or steal home? Decisions, decisions. Searching her mind didn't help; he only found numerous variations of a home run.

Her mouth ripped away from his, royally pissed that this was all she was receiving in such a profitable position, and granted him a scowl that smoldered her impatience. Yielding to that incitement, he sunk his mouth onto that exquisite spot at her neck. This move only momentarily made her melt before she stiffened delightedly a second later, when his fingers roamed down and curled into her.

She felt already … _ready_. As though she had been —

"You've been thinking about me," he breathed, pulling back to survey her expression.

Her body tightened hungrily. His mouth wafted forward to capture hers, muffling the moan that escaped her.

The way of the universe, kids: when you don't want something, or at least not yet, it's foisted on you. When you finally want it, you're denied.

And it was then that her father's voice came flowing into the kitchen.

"Audrey, have you seen the —"

She was humorously swift with the way she lowered her legs, swung open one of the refrigerator doors, shoved him inside as she adjusted her skirt and, right on time, turned to her father. To Walter, she would have looked like she was taking an innocent peek in the fridge.

He noted her blush. "My dear, are you alright? I haven't seen you this florid since I took you to see the first episode of American Top Gear and you _died_ of second hand embarrassment."

Castiel, still feeling decidedly experimental, dipped his fingers into the waistband of her skirt and gently tugged her forward. She smacked him and wrenched back his fingers in a way that would hurt anyone else, all the while smiling charmingly at her father. The way her unseen arm moved jerkily earned her a strange look from him, but went unaddressed.

"I'm fine, daddy! Did you need anything?"

The question abruptly triggered his habitual levity. "D'ah, yes, is the root beer in there? The gents and I are feeling a little parched after holding our poker faces for so long. Our established ambiance is so serious and so silent, we could just about hear Henry pass another gallstone."

She glanced back into the refrigerator, back at Castiel, who was now being respectfully silent during all this (though his heated gaze was loud with resolve). "Um, yeah!" Reaching above his head, she picked up the four pack and held it out. "It's here."

"Ah, there we are. Could you please pass it over?"

She froze. "Like… like close the fridge and walk on over and hand it to you?"

Walter looked vaguely amused by this. "Well, you're not going to throw it at me, are you? I'm a dreadful catcher. Haven't even caught the common cold in thirty-three years."

Her mouth opened and closed. He shook his head. "D'oh, never mind, I'll get it."

"No!" she shouted, and a startled Walter ceased his approach. "H–how about I bring it out to you all? You know, I'll be like a waitress; I'll bring them out in wine glasses – first rate hospitality!"

"Oh." His perturbation dissolved into a merry smile. "That'd be lovely! Thank you, darling. Don't keep us waiting or we'll withhold you your tip!" he wisecracked, sauntering out of the room.

Both stood by for sounds of a glass door opening and closing. When it came, she breathed a sigh of relief that sputtered into a laugh. "Well. We kinda walked into that one."

"We didn't walk into anything," Castiel said, frowning.

Her grin pulled with further amusement. "You're so cute. Don't tempt me."

And so, the foiled attempts continued.

Attempt Number Three happened in the back of her father's Rolls-Royce. A bird flew into the windshield and died. It took ten minutes for Castiel to put a stop to her crying.

Attempt Number Four happened on a flight of concrete steps, outside but out of sight. A bag of garbage flew out the window of a nearby building they thought to be abandoned and landed on them.

Attempt Number Five happened in the public restroom of Bloomingdales. An old friend of her father's walked in and they were immersed in conversation for half an hour, while he was locked in the stall.

Attempt Number Six happened against her front door. Dean phoned him for his help. The brothers were left wondering why the angel was so snappish during the whole job.

Attempt Number Seven (seven! lucky seven!) was a … pivotal one.

Castiel sat on the edge of Audrey's bed. Not poised for what they had been venturing for and constantly denied, but, rather contrarily, examining her Bible. While arranging herself in her wardrobe, she maintained a conversation with him.

"I don't get why you say the Bible is misleading. I mean, it's _the_ Bible! Not Star magazine."

"Are you insinuating that the content is worthy of trust and belief?" he asked, idly leafing through the ivory pages.

"Theoretically, yeah – I'm not saying _I_ believe that stuff. But I don't get it, you're super religious but you, _you_ don't believe the Bible?"

"I very much believe in the fundamental substance of the Bible," he closed the book and set it aside on her bed, "but not necessarily the way it was narrated." Silly prophets and their purple prose.

"But," she emerged from her wardrobe, a look of sore confusion on her face, "what do you mean by misleading? _How_ can you mean that? What do you know that the millions of authors, who supposedly penned the Bible, didn't? Cas?" He was staring at her. "What?" It was then that she fully discerned his regard toward a certain part of her body, as though he found it to be an eyesore.

With a bit of strain, he began, "You are wearing —"

Having followed his gaze, she finished, "Jeans? Yep. I'm in the mood to swathe my legs in denim today." His critical scowl never left, and in response, she hotly shot back with her own. "It's _my_ dress style, Castiel, so today it's jeans or nothing!"

Only when she turned away from him did his expression finally change. Jeans or _nothing_, she said? Very well, then.

Before she could cross the room, he caught her hip and steered her around to stand in front of him. Startled, she squeaked his name, but little was he deterred from his current mission to remove the undesirable, disobliging fabric that was her denim jeans. Sam and Dean wore jeans. His Audrey wore skirts. That's just the way it was. Their eyes never left each other's as he effortlessly undid the clasp, hooked his thumbs into her sides and pulled down, meeting and gathering her underwear along the way. Dutifully, she stepped out of them, and he pulled her forward to bestride him on the bed.

"I'm thinking you don't like them," she bantered, her voice soft yet stirring, as she curved her palms onto his shoulders.

His fingers wandered down to take her, and the slightest smirk traced his lips at what he felt there. "That most definitely is not what you're thinking of," he murmured, shaking his head.

Desire making her anxious, she fisted his lapels as she kissed him, her lips hastening force as his touch did likewise. It drove her wild, and she practically took his limbs with the trench coat she eventually managed to wrestle off after much effort. As her lips inched their attentions to the sharp jawline of his that she fancied so much, his gaze veered off to her open door.

Mustering a handful of her hair, his lips grazed the shell of her ear as he lowly warned, "Your father should be home soon."

He felt the rumble of her smothered moan that rejoiced the hot caress of his breath. "Fuck him."

"I'd rather not."

With a growl of raw impatience, she forced him onto his back. Before she could make a move that would inevitably steal ascendancy, he drove against her, rolling them over so he loomed over her. She struggled with his tie, finding it especially difficult from her position beneath him, before she irately gave up on it and sent her hands south. The struggle continued at his belt, and he had to smile a little when she muttered something resembling "fucking chastity belt".

Eventually, she was tugging at it petulantly, eliciting a groan from him at the friction it caused. His hand removed itself from within her, despite her cries of protest, and pulled her agitated ones away. His knuckles feathered her as he undid it himself, and her legs wantonly blossomed further, pleading for only one thing.

Hastily, she then kicked down the material, and when he was equally as exposed as she, she chuckled breathlessly, victorious in finally having him. His mouth sought to taste hers again when a moan erupted instead, taking himself by surprise when it did, as she had taken him in her hands. He nearly lost it right there. He could practically _hear_ her taking great delight in his reaction.

Apprehending these capable hands, he pinned them on either side of her in the crucifix position. They shared a climactic, vehement kiss that seemed impossibly endless.

His leg hit something hard. He stole a glance down. The Bible. Then, realization untimely struck and held him captive.

Descending on her, _into_ her, would be the ultimate violation. The utmost abuse of trust. Trust he wasn't entitled to in the first place. He couldn't give himself to her if she didn't even know what she was getting. He could _not_ do this without first telling her the truth about him. Of all the barriers, he was now his own. He had to tell her. It was for sure now. He _had_ to tell her. He had to. Definitely.

"Don't do this now, Castiel," she moaned, arching herself against him as willingly given bait, "don't make me beg, I just want…" Her eyes opened, noticing the stillness in his. "Hey, what's wrong?" she asked, her tone impressively gentle all of a sudden.

His eyes grew from glazed to tenderly repentant in mere seconds. He released custody of her wrists and clutched at her head, holding it against his with possessive hands. His eyes were trained on hers, but he saw nothing beyond his own deception. Their mouths opened and closed, both fumbling to select words from their confusion of thoughts, until he pulled away from her completely.

In record time, he redressed to leave. Her questions, meanwhile, were faint to his ears; his thoughts were louder. He knew what had to be done. It wasn't going to be pleasant, but it had to be done.

* * *

It was one week later, and Gabriel broke away from his reverent watch of the television (oh, how he loved that delightful lesbian that was Ellen!) to his first customer in half an hour.

"Oh praise Jesus, Joseph and that head bitch in charge, Mary – a familiar face!"

Audrey glanced down at him from the menu and smiled. It was a small smile. Something was restraining its full wattage today.

"Hi."

"You remember me, right?" he asked, granting her a winning smile, "Castiel's brother!"

Her smile faltered at the name. "Um, yeah, I do, of course I remember you."

"Sooo, what's he been up to?" he asked coyly, leaning forward on the counter, "Been, ah, _busy?_"

Although he amused her to some level, it seemed she could not see past an initial thought. "Uh, heh, I'm sorry, Gabriel, but hasn't he told you already?"

His grin froze. Oh no he didn't. He _didn't_. He didn't tell her yet, did he? No, just, no. No. Bad Castiel. Stupid Castiel.

"Nooo. What is it?" he asked rigidly, through the grin.

When she smiled disconsolately at him, it – _dammit, Castiel!_ – confirmed his suspicions. Oh, that self-righteous son of a bitch. How could he tell her? How could he be so insensitive? How could —

"He dumped me."

* * *

I saw Deathly Hallows Pt. 1 today! Wow. The only thing I hated was the cinematography. What, did they hire the same DP used for the Twilight films? Siriusly._  
_

Read and review :)


	38. Little Red Corvette

_Four days prior,_ Gabriel was standing in the same place, at the same time, again engaging in a discussion but with a different person.

"There is a man who lives in Henderson, Nevada by the name of Redford Palmer, who is alleged to have empowered the Sigil of Baphomet." There was a heavy pause as Castiel pointedly narrowed his eyes at Gabriel from across the counter, commendably bluffing to appear professional. Nope, he wasn't thinking of who he was trying not to think of, not at all. "Do you know anything about this?"

"And, ah, why would you suspect that?" Gabriel asked in a wily tone. Though he was innocent, and Castiel knew that already, he decided to play it deliberately cryptic, if only to frustrate, which it did.

"Your businesses are inclined to occur in the Nevada area, are they not?" he questioned tersely, tilting his head. Gabriel simply crossed his arms and smiled at him in an emphatic way that demanded the rationale straight up. With a sigh, he dropped the curtain of formality and explained, "The brothers requested that I ask you."

As though expecting exactly that, he made a face and scoffed. "If Samwise and Mr. Deano think I'm suddenly subordinate company to their poor man's Scooby Gang, they are wrong."

"A small amount of cooperation would suffice," he said evenly, "You were spared, after all."

Another scoff. "Oh please – _spared?_ I'm an archangel! They admitted it for themselves that they have nothing to threaten me with. Spare _me?_…" he trailed off into derisive chuckling.

Not in the mood to drag that out, Castiel asked again with pressing insistence. "Do you know _anything?_"

"Redford Palmer?" He pulled a theatrically thoughtful face. "Mmnope!"

Castiel deflated. With a curt nod, he turned to leave, unsuspecting of his being under Gabriel's penetrating observation as he did so. No more than five steps were made to distance them when the archangel's eyes began to pull into knowing slits, dancing with unshadowed mirth.

"So, she gave you a blowjob, huh?"

A squeak of shoes against the linoleum. Castiel reeled back around with wide, aghast eyes. His initial bewilderment collapsed when comprehension belatedly hit.

"You have _no_ right to infiltrate my mind!" he growled, storming back to the counter, futilely enforcing an air of severe gravity in the face of such indignity. Noting the effort, Gabriel's smirk swelled before he promptly commenced justifying himself.

"Well, you showed up here, without a single word about her, and I hadn't seen you since Laverne and Shirley came and catered to my entertainment, as per usual —"

"Who?"

"Sam and Dean!" A snide huff. "Seriously, you have time to get your whistle blown but none to brush up on a bit of pop culture history?" With a roll of his eyes, he resumed the subject. "I innocently assumed, during the time when you weren't paying me visits, that things were just swell between you and Little Red. Now, you're here, so where's the scoop? Come on, spill, spill, spill!" he goaded, beating his hands for emphasis. "You're what I call an Info-Cow, Cas. I'd very much like to milk you for what you're worth." At this, the severity of Castiel's glare distorted into perplexity. He carried on.

"And I _love_ hearing about your shenanigans! It's morbidly compelling to the ear, like the sound of a train derailing from its tracks." His focus waned momentarily as he paused, as if listening for these sounds, but then refocused, sinking back into his habitual slyness. "Here's the thing. If you don't tell me, I'll happily continue reading your mind and resort to having a discussion with that."

Castiel stubbornly scowled on. Gabriel launched into it. "So! How was she? … Really, that good? … Does she spit or swallow?"

"Stop this —"

"Did you then become the Mila Kunis to her Natalie Portman à la _Black Swan_?"

"Enough!"

An impish grin. "Cas–ti–_el_," he drawled dotingly, "you're all strung up and I don't understand why," he observed with abstract sympathy. "Let me help – no can of worms is too big for me to open."

When Castiel's mouth opened, he instantly knew why. "Metaphor for a problem," he clarified casually.

Understanding, his mouth closed. Then he frowned. There _was_ actually a reason why he hadn't looked in on Gabriel for a while. Besides the obvious being that he had been preoccupied with helping the Winchesters score cases and just plain making attempts to score with Audrey, he was somewhat disinclined to his presence now.

As much as it needled him to admit, Gabriel's force of personality was very persuasive, and in his vulnerability engendered by continuously permitting him to dissect and analyze his thoughts, he himself had become rather suggestible within his presence.

At this point, however, he was open to any suggestions. Initially, he had been _so_ sure that telling Audrey the truth would be the right thing to do, but doubts had since sprouted and bred into more.

Delicately, he divulged, "I wish to be close to her. But —"

A glow of recognition was already in Gabriel's eyes when he interrupted. "Ah, yes, your secret; _the_ – secret. It plagues you, huh? A tale worthy of Edgar Allan Poe."

He contemplated him dismally. "What would you do?"

"I'd sleep with her." When the answer appeared to stun Castiel, especially in its swiftness, he elaborated, "I'm not like you, Cas. If she's putting out, I'm getting some. And you can't hit that if you tell her the truth, 'cause she'll be too busy screaming at you. And not in the good, ego-stroking way." His smirk grew slick. "Come _on! _Go and capitalize on her sexual philanthropy! She's practically holding a sprig of mistletoe between her legs. What further invitation do you need? Take a bite of her bad girl meat!"

"I can't," he enunciated tightly, eyes grimacing as he mentally restrained his thoughts that leaned to this logic, "Not yet. The truth must come out."

"Not everything has to come out! Look at Ryan Seacrest!"

"But —"

"Let me put things into perspective," he cut him off, snapping his fingers and producing a framed photo out of thin air. It was of a group of men, and he pointed to the man at the front. "This is you, you're John Lennon. Little Red represents the rest the Beatles and then –" he snapped his fingers again and a tiny, tattered photo of a woman materialized between them, "– uh oh? What do we have here? Yoko Ono? No! _This_," he shoved the photo in Castiel's face, "is the reality that you are an angel! Do you want to break up the Beatles? Huh? DO YA?"

Frowning, he stepped back from his adamant hand. "Before I can do anything, she must first know of my job —"

"Your job _is_ Little Red!" he exclaimed, eyes rolling upwards, fed up with this constant campaign for comprehension, "And it needs to be worked hard and done well!" Humor resurfaced in his eyes, unable to resist this rewarding metaphor. "But don't rush it, you don't wanna get ink everywhere and upset the operation." There was a beat as he grinned. "Premature ejaculation," he clarified proudly.

"I gathered that very well," Castiel responded dryly.

"Cas," he sighed wearily, reclining against the counter, "I am _telling_ you, if you reveal the truth about you, it will devastate her more than what Bristol Palin did with the rumba on the eleventh season of Dancing With the Stars." Suddenly, he posed in one direction, pasted on a handsome smile and spoke in a vibrant tone. "Only on the ABC!"

Castiel's solemnity abated as he glanced in the same direction, searching but finding nothing. "Who are you talking to?"

In a flash, Gabriel looked decidedly innocent. "No one." He folded his arms definitively. "So. What do you think?"

"I have a number of ideas," he murmured distantly. Either tell her or don't. So what if it was only two options? Two was a number. Unique situations didn't usually promise many ideal courses of action.

"That's just peachy, but can we focus on this first?" Castiel scowled at him in reprove, but it did not deter. "I didn't give you _all_ that advice for _all_ that time, just for you to screw it _all _up!"

Rounding the counter, he took him by the shoulders and herded him out the door. "Take her on a date – you know what those are, right? – maybe a nice walk on Brooklyn Bridge, someplace nice, before you bring her on home, jump in that long-sought-after car – your Little Red corvette! – and take it for a joy ride, ensuring that you drive it numerous times hard and fast over the horizon. Good luck! I hope the engine is loud!"

* * *

It was cold and windy on Brooklyn Bridge that night. Currents of air licked the waters of the East River and gusted across the bridge, biting all within its wake. Together, he and Audrey stood, appreciating the Manhattan skyline in silence. Little had been spoken so far, and what _had_ been said inescapably regarded the incident that very nearly eventuated the other day. Castiel, having concocted yet another piece of fiction that taxed his conscience, told her that, at the time, he had had an emergency he needed to attend to. He knew she didn't believe him, but she had the grace not to hound him about it.

It was instances like these that his appreciation for her swelled, while at the same time bitterly knowing that these moments would later come back to bite her for her ignorance. He respected her too much now to stand idly by and allow that to happen.

Since that cock and bull story was passively accepted, the silence between them was not born from awkwardness, but rather, from a different quality floating between them tonight. Other moments between them could be described as intellectual, or sweet, or sensually suspenseful, but rarely this. Rarely romantic.

Inwardly, he had yet to associate the word with the situation since it still lied in the supposedly uncharted waters of experience. The notion that this "thing" with Audrey, after all this time, had been a budding human phenomenon that was romance was not at all comforting.

Despite this, he indulged a minute to really consider themselves in that light. Her arm was curled around his in their usual way, huddling close with her head rested against his arm. This was not a new spectacle seen on Brooklyn Bridge. In fact, several of their cases were scattered throughout.

For once, she was not babbling on about this and that (whether he was listening or not), nor was she trying to make a move on him. She was just quietly viewing the skyline in peace. He thought about this for a moment.

This really _was_ peaceful.

Which is why it pained him to have to undo all the work they had put in to achieve this calm. Yes, Castiel had made his decision. Tempting and trouble-free though it may be to simply see her home and touch her the way he ached to, he had to tell her. She deserved to be shown the asterisk attached to him that supplied the fine print; she deserved the pure, unadulterated truth.

She caught him staring. She smiled. His internal conflict eased at the sight of it. Her free hand slithered up his chest, which relaxed under it, curled around his neck and drew him down for a kiss; soft yet still lingering of her indomitable sensuality. Again, this was nothing new on Brooklyn Bridge.

In the sparse but essential moments where they parted for air, nothing was said. Other occasions would see an instant leap into conversation, swift remark or furthering the physical, but tonight, their brows touched and they spoke no words, the silence between them saying everything that was needed.

The strain at his brow was the early indication that the words he had in mind did not match hers. Whatever simmered in her thoughts clearly pleased her, while his noticeably preyed on him.

Gently, he urged himself away from both her mental and physical hold, unaware that his next selection of words composed one of the biggest conversational clichés in the history of the universe.

"We need to talk."

Though these four words were not uncommon, the assembly of them together evidently disturbed her. He inhaled.

I am an angel. I am an angel. I am an angel of the Lord.

The words were at the tip of his tongue, ready to take that unavoidably compromising leap, but gazing at her, different words were forcibly offered to him. Different, but not wholly unfamiliar.

He had known from day one that any sort of relationship with her that extended beyond a shallow affiliation was treacherous. This was the same disciplinary perspective he held for every human being that was not affiliated with his operations on earth. Never did he expect their association to have blossomed so elaborately. It had been difficult to sustain that perspective when she had pressed much more compelling assessments into his insatiably curious mind; taking him by force, mentally spinning him around, thrusting him into her world and from the labyrinth he blindly ended up here.

The silence bought from her afforded him collectivity of mind at long last, something she had costed him for so long with her sheer presence. In such vivid clarity, dust was swept from that disciplinary perspective that had been out of mind these past few months, and from it emerged new words. He exhaled.

"I don't think we should see each other anymore."

The words struck amusement in her briefly, but she soon steadied under his stoical gaze.

"What?"

The clichés continued.

"It's not you, it's me."

And continued.

"I don't want to hurt you."

And continued.

"I simply can't do this anymore."

And continued.

"So I need some time to think."

There was a pressure in her face that so badly wanted to generate a "Why?", but with noticeable effort, she swallowed it back like a gag reflex, and straightened her spine.

"Okay."

There was a thickness in her light tone, if possible. He contemplated her sharply. He saw it: she was _contriving_ to be treating all this lightly, and under his gaze that obviously discriminated exactly this, her pretense was beginning to wane. So much pride, she had _so_ much pride. His gaze questioned her certitude, to which she repeated herself to.

"Okay!" she insisted, her tone gaining an unsteady edge. She made a hurried attempt to obscure it with a smile.

With that officializing response, he immediately disliked the notion that this – they – whatever it was, was _over._

"No, I withdraw my words," he hastily declared with renewed confidence, but it withered as soon as he said it. "No. Yes. _No_."

Self-discipline warred with the wayward sentiments she had impressed and fostered within him, indicated only by way of the restless scowl on his face.

Exasperation flashed in her mannered smile, as she stiffly said, "Make up your mind."

In a blink of an eye, his hands framed her face possessively and he stared at her, searching for a way out but only finding reasons to stay. Her expression was graciously ambiguous, pressing no influence on him, but he saw and became trapped by the disappointment that lied beneath. A strange sentiment flooded him, one he had been harboring for her for quite some time, bringing suffering to his restraint, but he refused to let it conquer him. It would be wrong to stay. The threat must be severed before the cancer could spread.

With much difficulty, as though removing himself from a second skin, he finally let go of her. No words were said as he turned and walked away. She didn't move until he was long out of sight.

* * *

I really wanna hear from you 160 people who have favorited and/or alerted my story so far! It's gotten a lot quieter lately… :(

I'm going to make an attempt at rapid fire updates from now on. I got an email today saying that I have to start intensive apartment hunting in Sydney on the 7th of January (turns out our place in Sydney harbor is only temporary) and during that time and after I most definitely will not have time for this story anymore. Gah, why must time move so fast. So, looks like I have to condense this story hardcore and the chapters will be choppier. My inner perfectionist will be writhing in pain, lol. Alleviate the pain by reviewing! _*undignified smile*_

Read and review :D


	39. A Hard Knock Life

The moment Dean appeared at the motel room door, Sam did a double take.

"What the hell happened to you?"

The elder Winchester had been bruised like a peach. As he hobbled toward the kitchen sink wearing the sourest scowl, he spoke blearily.

"Cas, the hell, the heaven, happened to me, again … _dammit!_" he cussed, abruptly animating, "I think he may have knocked out a few brain cells."

Sam's mouth worked in dumbfounded motion, before rising to his feet and moving to his brother. "What _happened?_" he asked insistently.

A look of tired exasperation blared his way. "We had rough sex – what do you think happened?" Pressing a damp cloth to his nose briefly, he scraped a chair forward and sank into it. "He beat me up."

There was a beat. "And, what, stole your lunch money?" he quipped weakly, before claiming the seat across from him, "How? How did this happen?"

"Eh, I told him about our plan," he ground out sullenly, chucking the cloth onto the table with more force than necessary, "Corner Dante, trap him, wheedle him into our favor. _But,_" his tone grew colorfully sarcastic, "needless to say, all evidence pointed to the fact that our nerdy little angel does _not_ approve!"

"Huh." Sam blinked in surprise. "So he just… laced into you like that?"

All soreness in his face fully retreated just to make way for his driest look achievable. "Is it _not_ obvious?" As though the effort stung him, he winced, turning instead to the less painful act of thinking. "I told him that I was aware of how sick and tired he was of us working with the opposing team, and I told him that when you're short of options, you hock your standards to get some. We don't enjoy it, I thought _that_ much was obvious. I said that I acknowledge the thumbs down he's gifted us with but he had to_ get over it._" A humorless laugh. "Then the guy just snapped – I don't get it!"

There was a long pause before he rose from his seat and limped for the refrigerator, leaving Sam behind, who was nodding with a sort of forethought.

"He's been acting weird this past month," he finally said, after considering his words during the lull. His intent gaze elevated from the table top. "Doesn't he seem a little, I don't know, somber, lately?"

After a beer bottle had been drawn from it, the refrigerator was shut again. "We _are_ talking about Cas here, right? Somber is like his," Dean twirled the bottle, searching for the words, "default setting."

"Yeah but, for a while he seemed kinda…" Sensing that Dean had already fathomed his judgment and was challenging it, he hastily threw in, "I don't know about _happy_, but … at peace." He smiled a little dismally. "The way an angel should be."

Predictably, Dean was not quick to jump into the sentimental, especially in regards to the angel that had just battered him, and eagerly preferred to wallow in resentment.

"I know what way he should be," he grumbled like an indignant child, wincing a little as he slumped into his seat, "_A_-way. From me." At Sam's bemused stare, he attempted to clarify, "_Away_, from _me_, don't you – god dammit! He's totally maimed my material!"

* * *

It was the fifth of May. He had left her on the last day of March. Since angels didn't sleep, it felt longer.

Longer in this world of darkness, chaos, warfare and witnessing the Winchester brothers model their bottomless supply of flannel shirts. It was discouraging to know that he could no longer enjoy the very charming experience he knew of outside this world, but he knew it was never his to enjoy. Audrey was never his. Angels did not have possessions, and technically not even their own gender-specific personal pronoun. He was an it. And _it_ had a job to do.

He assessed the formerly pristine lounge room of the yet-to-be leased property. Just hours ago, he and the brothers had fought with and exorcised a notorious trinity of demons here, inflicting the place with a wealth of devastation. One could sardonically say that they had repainted the walls in the aptly named pigment of Blood Red. Raising two fingers, he drew in the prescribed sigils in the air, all the while whispering in Enochian. The room glowed gently as it was cleansed and blessed. He stood as a haunting figure in the midst of this luminosity, spoiling the heavenly grandeur with his hard, unmoved disposition. After a few moments, the light moderated and the room had reverted back to its originally pristine state.

Eyes sweeping the room, he reasoned himself to be satisfied with what had been achieved here tonight, but he knew the sentiment was hollow.

He felt empty and heavy at the same time. The contradiction and therefore its complexity frustrated him. He thought, by ceasing all contact with her, he would have regained his simplicity of mind. A strict mentality that served only for the convenience of Heaven and humanity._ Out of sight, out of mind_ was the phrase he had come across. What a damned myth.

At one point in the past, he had been human, but at the time, the condition was pronounced only in light of his complete absence of power. How ironic that only now he _felt_ human whilst very much existing an angel. Emotions were challenging. Whatever he felt mentally burdened him, dragging down and stretching his compassion and patience until it thinned into almost nothing.

A practical stance was needed. With her out of the picture, it meant one less human to tend to. The Winchesters were a more than generous bundle of issues he had to manage. They did what they saw fit, when they wanted to, how they wanted to, and with whoever they wanted to. They were like children with guns: no matter how big of a threat they may pose to his physical or mental preservation, he cared for them anyway. They were his weaknesses.

And unfortunately, as he had come to realize, Audrey was too. But he didn't _want_ to care for her. She should _not_ be entitled to the care of an angel. She wasn't relevant, therefore she shouldn't matter.

His eyes, that had been open but staring at nothing, suddenly enlivened. Not before obliging the room with a final, decisive once-over, he turned to take flight and leave.

The wide screen television on the wall behind him flickered on to static, coldly illuminating the shadowed room. The angel turned back around, frowning when he saw this. Something about it seduced him forward, until he was a mere five feet away from it. A face burst onto the screen suddenly, and he jolted back a little.

"And we're back on Who Wants To Be a Millionaire! I'm your host, Gabriel, and in the hot seat tonight is Gabriel! Now, Gabriel, how does it feel to be one answer away from winning one million dollars!"

Cheers of support resonated from the unseen audience as Castiel took a step back from the television, regarding the device overall with a mixture of incredulity and suspicion.

The camera cut to a shot of Gabriel the Contestant, the one _not_ wearing the slick tuxedo. "I… I just haven't registered it all yet, to be honest with you, Gabriel –" the camera cut back to a shot of Gabriel the Host nodding gravely in acknowledgment, "– this is such a huge step." Gabriel the Contestant looked straight into the camera… straight at Castiel. "A _huge step_."

After a moment of constipation, Castiel revived to send a glance around the room, as though there may be some infinitesimal possibility that someone else was being addressed.

"For the viewers who have just joined us over the break, here is the question."

With a flash, appearing below on the screen was the question: "WHAT SHOULD CASTIEL DO?". Gabriel the Host read exactly this aloud for the audience, while Castiel drifted closer in interest.

"Now, just for tonight, we have reinstated our Fifty/Fifty lifeline, courtesy for our viewers, or view_er_ at home." Castiel was dangerously on the verge of rolling his eyes when Gabriel the Host turned to the strategically placed camera behind him and winked, with an accompanying _ding!_. "So! Gabriel, you have used this lifeline, and your remaining options _are—!_" he commenced, with some bravado, "A! Don't tell Audrey the truth. Or B! Tell Audrey the truth. Four options have been narrowed down to two. What have you come up with over the break?"

Sighing _almost_ convincingly, he mumbled, "Right now, I'm just… weighing the options here. If Castiel doesn't tell her, then they'll remain at the same place for the rest of their lives! Well. To be precise, for the rest of _her_ life, y'know?" The audience rumbled with low chuckles. Castiel hoped they (although imaginary, and possibly all comprised of Gabriel clones) felt his withering frown through the glass.

"But it certainly saves him the turbulence. No doubt she'd feel some level of betrayal. And then there's her huge ass pride to consider. She's gonna feel duped in the most personal way. It's one thing to have proof that there are angels, but it's another thing to discover that you've been messing around with one."

"And your thoughts on Option B?"

The camera began to zoom in on him, adding prominence to something significant. "Then there's the chance that the turbulence will end. She might accept him for who and what he is."

Castiel's eyes shaded dolefully, dropping from the screen entirely. No doubt he had considered that possibility before.

A smirk crept onto Gabriel the Contestant's face. "Who knows, it might cater to a weird, taboo fantasy of hers? Sleeping with an angel – mmm, I've been a very, very blasphemous girl! Smite me oh angel, smite me hard!" The audience laughed louder this time, and it was loud enough for Castiel to discern that it was, indeed, an audience of Gabriel clones.

"There are three ways this could end. Castiel could never, ever tell her; Castiel could tell her and she'll "dump" him like a used tampon; or Castiel could tell her, allow the tempest to make its mark, and then…" he made a dubious face and shrugged, "… they'll be fine, whatever that means." An expression mingled on his face that implied he was pursuing some line of thought, but shook his head upon meeting a dead end. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I think I have to phone a friend."

Castiel cast a wary glance down to his pocket, where his cell phone was.

"Another one of our defunct lifelines that we've restored just for tonight's game!" chimed Gabriel the Host. This time, Castiel did roll his eyes. "Who would you like to call?"

"I think there's no better person to answer this than –" Castiel drew in a breath. "– Gabriel!"

"A sound choice!" Gabriel the Host exclaimed impressively. With a flick of his wrist, he held a finger to his ear. "We're calling Gabriel. It's ringing."

There was the sound of dialing, ringing, a shuffling of the phone receiver and then a voice.

"Yyyyyellooo?"

"Gabriel! This is Gabriel here from Who Wants To Be a Millionaire!"

"What? Nooo, no way!"

"Yes way. Now, you're friend Gabriel is here —"

"Hoo-hoo! Gabe man, you made it!"

"I did! I did!"

"— and he's stuck on the question that determines whether or not he wins _one _– _million _– _dollars._"

"That's harsh."

"Way harsh."

"You have thirty seconds to help Gabriel, Gabriel. And your time… starts… _NOW!_"

"Gabriel! The question is: WHAT SHOULD CASTIEL DO? Should he A! Don't tell Audrey the truth. Or B! Tell Audrey the truth?"

"… what happened to C and D?"

"Fifty/fifty."

"Oh? I thought that was defunct."

"Yeah, so was Phone a Friend!"

"Fifteen seconds!"

"Hrm, righteo, um… first, let's measure this thing here —"

"That's what you did last night!"

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA—"

"Ten seconds!"

At this point, Castiel was desperate to hear an answer, any answer.

"Alrighty, I think I find the answer is —"

The camera suddenly cut to Gabriel the Host, who peered directly into the camera and dramatically said three of the most hated words spoken on primetime television:

"AFTER THE BREAK."

Only for a split second was Castiel allowed to deliver his kicked puppy dog expression to the television screen, but he immediately saw that something had gone wrong with the device. It was replaying that very second, over and over again, like a broken record.

"AFTER THE BREAK! AFTER THE BREAK! AFTER THE BREAK! AFTER THE BREAK! AFTER THE—"

It was increasing in volume, speed and pitch until he sounded like a frantic chipmunk, and it was as though the flurry of it was unscrewing Castiel's mental clockwork, overheating his mind and driving him mad. Tiny imaginary Gabriels were dancing around his head. In an effort to elude the likely chance of this mayhem exacerbating his already tender mind, he teleported right out of the room without a care of where he landed, allowing his wings to pilot him anywhere in the world.

Alighting a second later, he breathed in, collecting himself. The smell of the air informed him of his location. New York City. It was like he never left.

Boxed in by a tract of tall apartment buildings, the moonlight reached him through the slits of all the buildings' narrowly stationed fire escapes. His feet began to move, and he let them navigate him elsewhere without use of conscious thought. It was a seemingly endless alleyway; he took many turns yet never found the road, even though it could be heard. The sounds of urban activity loudened, and turning another corner, he was finally exposed to the direct light of a road. Two shadows intervened it, moving in his direction but not for him. All three stopped the instant they saw the other party.

"Fancy running into you here," one of them sang out, their Queens-inflected voice poisonously sweet.

Castiel glanced between the two. "Hello Jody, Nicky."

"What are _you_ doing in this neighborhood?" Nicky spat, eying him with obligatorily-_fierce_ disdain. Perhaps while Audrey may not bitter about his leaving, Nicky may well be, in her interests.

"What is this neighborhood?" he asked, appraising their surroundings but deducing little from all the brick and metal.

"Hell's Kitchen," Jody answered. Her regard grew mercilessly derisive all of a sudden. "Awww. Honey. Did ya get lost along the way to the whore ya ditched our Audrey for?"

His traveling eyes stopped their appraisal and fell to Jody, souring. "There is no whore."

Nicky inspected his nails, feigning dispassion, and huffed, "There supposedly is no spoon, either."

The reference skipped right over his head but he wasn't interested in understanding anyway. "How is she?" he asked, unsure if it was in his place to ask. Nicky jumped at the question, as though he had been eagerly bracing for it for quite some time.

"She is doing _famously_ without you," he stated with his chin upturned high to the gods, immodestly haughty on her behalf, "As a matter of fact, she's become famous!"

Castiel gave him a curious look. Jody too.

"Not _famous_ famous. _Wikipedia page_ famous," he clarified snippily. Jody's nod was of resigned confirmation. "She lead a photo shoot commissioned by Mode magazine, and then punched editor in chief Wilhelmina Slater in the face when she called her the female artistic equivalent of Terry Richardson." His proud smile stumbled a little, and he turned to Jody. "Which is kinda true. Don't tell her that."

The added remark was lost on Castiel as he had been gauging their surroundings with suspicion. So _this_ was Hell's Kitchen. The primary stomping ground for – if he were to take Gabriel's word for it, and he did – all the demons in New York. When he returned focus on Jody and Nicky, he found that they had already begun walking away without further word. Ah, the shoulder; for it was cold.

"You shouldn't be in this district," he said firmly.

Their arms had been linked together, so when Jody whirled around to sneer, Nicky awkwardly went with her. "What are ya yakkin' about? We're here to meet with someone who lives here."

"For what?"

Nicky fielded this one. "Drugs!" His ambitious grin demurred. "Seriously though, it's for a pirated copy of The Real Housewives of Orange County. Love the show like I love my Mother Monster, but unless it's for New York City's housewives, those bitches on the West Side ain't getting a dollar from moi, nor am I contributing to their Nielsen ratings."

Castiel wasn't listening. He had detected something dark nearby. "It's dangerous here," he rasped, marching up to them, determination laden in each step.

"It's New York City!" Jody dismissed witheringly, turning both she and Nicky to walk away from him, "You're signing a death warrant just by walking out the door."

A voice cooed to them, turning their heads. "Ladies! Hello!" Surfacing from the diffuse light of the main road was a shadow that emerged to be a kindly young man once he joined them under the light. To anyone else, he was just a cute twenty-something wearing an Invader Zim T-shirt that read "Deal With It" with pinstripe suspenders, sporting the supposedly-quirky-but-just-annoying hipster glasses and a Charlie Chaplin bowler hat. To Castiel, however, he recognized him as the demon Valefar. By way of his dark aura, not appearance. Demons were _so_ different in New York. As was everything else.

It was a reflex for him to feel hostile to this being, but the feeling was displaced with calmness, almost against his will, when the boy smiled at him. It wasn't a mockery of a smile that demons typically bestowed upon others that held wicked promises. It was a genuine, boyishly sweet smile, one that could charm anyone into having a chat with him. Or seeing some indie band. Whatever hipsters did.

"Howdy Castiel!" he greeted with childlike enthusiasm. There was the _slightest_ hint of mockery in his tone that could easily be dismissed, but the smile remained as sweet as ever. "Goodness me – no smile today, mister? Don't you know frowning makes the _angels_ cry? Chin up, you!"

Nicky threw the angel a skeptical look. "You know our dealer?"

The word snared his caution. "_Dealer?_" he questioned, narrowing his eyes at the baby-faced demon. At least the T-shirt made more sense now.

"Yes indeedy!" His lips curved a little, privately taking pleasure in Castiel's inevitable, albeit remarkably veiled, shock. "You ought to know that I'm one to do all kinds of deals."

"Yeah, Robin –" Castiel did a double take at the name. "– much obliged for the great deal on that True Blood boxset," Nicky beamed, clearly smitten, "I needed me some Beel and Sookeh."

"What can I say?" His tone gained a sly edge as he discreetly eyed Castiel, who was staring at him precariously, trying in vain to anticipate the demon's actions. "I have a soft spot for the supernatural."

As they progressed with the very innocent monetary exchange, Castiel watched with a gradient of emotions, unable to look away. Confusion, horror, amusement, fascination, curiosity, more confusion. He waited for potential signs of menace but they never came. Whenever Robin looked over at him and smiled, he figured he must have appeared irrationally unfriendly with his unbroken scowl. Money was now tucked away in Robin's pockets while Nicky clutched his purchase with such glee he was almost in tears.

"It's all yours! Yaaaay!" Robin intoned merrily, clapping his palms together in a demure little applause. Nodding towards the discs, he added in a confidential whisper, "Alexis is a grade-A bitch. If it were up to me, I'd have her sterilized and exiled to Mars."

Nicky was jumping up and down like a child on Christmas morning. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! You rock!"

"No problemo, Sassy Gay Friend. I know I rock. And occasionally roll."

The moment Nicky turned to Jody to squeal and wet his pants over it, Robin turned to the angel, and found that he had been standing by with a question at the ready.

"Robin?" he echoed questioningly, with a hint of a sneer.

"That's right, mister. Robin Hood's my name around these parts," he proclaimed with pride, making a fluid gesture to the setting around them, "I steal from the rich and give to the…" He contemplated Nicky's hysterical flailing over the discs. His lofty gaze flattened. "… lowbrow."

Castiel still could not comprehend the situation. "So, that's all?" he asked, near-incredulously. Robin smiled sympathetically.

"Did you expect me to act differently?" he asked, a knowing glint in his eye since, of course, an angel _would_ expect different. "'Cause this is the way I work." His gaze darkened, but without malice. "This is the way we _all_ work around here, believe it or not. And I hope you can respect that. If a demon wants to steal, let them steal. If an archangel wants to serve coffee, let them serve coffee. If a shapeshifter wants to be President of the United States, then by Morgan Freeman, _let_ them be President!"

Upon seeing the resistance etched on Castiel's face, he pressed on with a hopeful smile. "You and I aren't that different. Not in this city. A demon here is just another word for "Typical New Yorker", the same way another word for an angel on earth is "Jesus Freak" and another word for American is "obese". So, before you say or think anything, kindly keep your double standards to yourself." Abruptly, he straightened his spine. "But, uh, don't think I'm not still awesomely evil! _I_ am the top dog of copyright infringement in the Northern Hemisphere – and yes that verily includes Thailand, which is saying something – and I am also contributing to the early demise of the ozone layer by using lavish amounts of hairspray."

Castiel stared at him. Robin began to smile sweetly at the manifestation of the angel's resignation. Or so he thought.

"You expect me to simply let you walk away from here?" Castiel asked, with an undertone of a threat. Robin pouted, wrinkled his nose sullenly and grumbled under his breath.

"Ooh, you angels think you're _so_ out of this world, huh? Well, uh, frankly, I wish you were!" He pounded his fists together in the air in conquest. "Bam! How do you like them apples?"

When Castiel tilted his head quizzically at him, the demon deflated with a darkly amused expression. "Look. This is New York City, Mr. Castiel, and the only evil, the only _real freaks_ you'll find here are human." His eyes flicked aside to acknowledge something behind him, most likely Nicky and Jody who have been in their own little world, even though he was not at all interested. "For. _Example._"

Behind him, there was a bang, followed by a cry of pain.

"ALL OF YOU! WALLETS ON THE GROUND! NOW!"

* * *

So. Um. Who watched the last episode? GET IT, MEG. I always thought Castiel to be a fast learner. All the haters are probably slash fans. Come at me.

By the way, all your reviews for the last chapter were lovely! I hadn't gotten that many since chapter twenty-four, lol. I wish I could respond to my non-registered readers; you guys rock too. And roll.

Read and review :D


	40. Hit Me, Baby, One More Time

"Uh oh. Sassy Gay Friend is soaking blood into the arm of his Banana Republic cardigan. Whatever are you to do, Mr. Castiel?"

As Robin glibly addressed this into his ear – both otherworldly beings transfixed by the scene before them – the angel took this very sight as an indication that he had lost the chance to demur. Seeing Audrey's friends being mugged at gunpoint, one already wounded, awoke a great sense of duty in him, and it was almost against his wishes since the occasion, although undeniably perilous, held no underlying link to the supernatural. So Robin had pretty much given voice to his own internal commentary: whatever was he to do? Play human or handle it like the warrior of Heaven he was?

Upon that appearance of blood, he knew the answer. He sighed. Not. _Again_.

"Ooh, this is gonna be epic," Robin gasped, bouncing on his feet like an avid squirrel, "Did you know that this is actually how Batman comes about?"

Castiel turned to the demon and questioned his continuing presence with an up-and-down glance. "Are you intending to help?" he asked curtly.

Robin scowled primly upon that tone. "How easily piqued you are, Castiel. And I'm sorry to say that _this_ here demon shows mercy, not assistance. If I did, I wouldn't be doing this."

Then he vanished. Abandoned, staring at nothing, Castiel was swept back into reality by the sounds of belligerent tones his aural faculties were no stranger to. All at once, his and the lead mugger's eyes met. He began to stalk over to the angel, comfortably twirling around his gun; a toy in his hands, never a weapon. Everyone seemed to have forgotten about the presence that had been Robin.

"What about you, pretty boy?" It was asked softly, but there was a slick intimidation in its tenor. It actually captivated Castiel in its effective subtlety, which he expressed in a blink. The blink appeared to scare the living daylights out of the man, as though this reaction somehow demonstrated defiance, and his suavely menacing act caved. "DON'T FUCKING MOVE! FUCK!" he screamed, pressing the gun hard against the angel's temple. "I SAID WALLETS DOWN, HANDS UP, COME ON!"

The gun was warm. This had been the trigger-happy man to have shot Nicky earlier. Stirred up by Castiel's lack of response, anxiety began to burgeon behind the mugger's eyes. They then winced, feeling it take form within them and fearing it was noticeable.

"If you are wise, you will put the gun down." Castiel employed the same calmly authoritative tone that almost never affected the Winchesters, hoping it would work on him instead.

The boldness of this statement made the mugger flinch. "Wh–what?" Angry to have been made flinch, he pressed the gun harder. "What the fuck did you say to me?"

"Put the —"_ Bang_. Sigh. Castiel took a moment to glance down at his bleeding abdomen, casual as ever, then back up at the mugger, who had a growing look of terror on his face.

"The fuck?" The mugger stumbled back, not expecting the angel to start advancing on him into the shadows, lifting from him the mask of menace and then wearing it even better.

"I said –" _Bang_. "– put the –" _Bang_. "– gun –" _Bang_. "– down." _Click_.

The trembling mugger was too petrified to even acknowledge his lack of bullets. After a minute where there was complete and utter silence all around (by now, the others had witnessed everything at equal levels of shock and were standing still in one inclusive group), save for the ringing of the shots fired, he dropped the gun.

Castiel watched it fall and land next to the spatters of his own blood, regarding it all with an unearthly repose. He looked up at the mugger. "Thank you." He reached out, touched his temple, and watched the mugger crumple into an unconscious heap at his feet, as though his strings had been cut. Severe eyes slid up to the remaining two, who flinched at his scrutiny.

"Drop these civilians' possessions immediately."

They exchanged identically apprehensive glances. Then they jolted into a dash in the other direction. The urge to roll his eyes had to be resisted as he outstretched his hand, fisted the air and wrenched back. A telekinetic force took them and launched them back to crash at Jody and Nicky's feet, who staggered back in alarm. Frantically, they dropped their possessions, even some of their own, and then moved to flee. But, after bumping into each other, they stopped and appealed to Castiel with uneasy faces. They thought they needed his permission to go. He nearly smiled.

"Go." They didn't move. They were being pinned there by their morbid curiosity. Suddenly, Castiel vanished. Only to materialize right in front of them. "_Go._" They scampered off like panicked hares. Castiel had never seen humans move so fast. He then turned to Jody and Nicky. Now for the tricky part.

They had forgotten completely about Nicky's wound, even Nicky himself, as they gaped openly at him. Castiel drew closer. They backed away in response. They didn't make it far as their backs met the brick wall. He said nothing, his gentle gaze aspiring to say everything necessary, as he reached out to a trembling Nicky and placed his hand on the tenderest spot of his arm. The trembles stopped when his body realized that the arm had suddenly been healed. The moment it struck his mind, and Jody's, they looked back at Castiel, no longer with fear but with wonder.

"Shall we go somewhere safer?" he asked in measured tones. Dumbly, they nodded, not knowing what to expect but keen to follow him anywhere. Castiel reached out to both of them, touched their brows and flew them elsewhere.

* * *

In between each tick of the clock, silence followed reluctantly. They were in the back room of the record store, and Castiel had just demonstrated the same visual presentation shown to Professor to confirm that he was an angel. The wings, the healing, the control via hands and fingers, the whole shebang. With every passing tick, Belief grew just as reluctantly within both Jody and Nicky. The latter was curled up in the leather desk chair, clutching the wound on his arm that was no longer there, though the memory was. The former was seated on the table, staring at the floor, reeling.

"Wow."

"Yes."

"You're a —"

"Yes."

"Of the —"

"Yes."

"Which means God is —"

"Yes." When Jody appeared to be out of questions he could prematurely answer and was stewing in this sea of new realities, he glanced at Nicky. "How do you feel?"

For a second, he thought his question had been lost on the boy, but eventually, he spoke very stiffly, "I have been shot. Then healed. Then I discovered that the Man Upstairs exists." His tone grew understandably ornery. "It's a lot to take in under twenty minutes! I honest to Gucci haven't felt this frozen with emotion since I learned I was too fat to fit into those clothes I bought from eBay."

Castiel felt Jody's precarious stare before he saw it. "Are ya telling the truth?" She sounded resistant to it, even though he knew she was devoid of any plausible explanations of her own.

"To question my honesty is to question your senses. You saw what you saw, and it is all true."

Very slowly, her precarious stare dissolved into one of gratitude. "Well. Thank you for what ya did." It suddenly contorted inquisitively. "Is that, is that why you were there? To save us?"

He blinked thoughtfully, gaze lowering. "To be quite honest, I have no idea why I appeared there when I did."

Nicky suddenly jerked out of his stillness into his usual exuberance. "It's a miracle!"

Jody smiled briefly at his change of mood, but then looked back at Castiel abruptly. "Does Audrey —"

"No."

"Is that why you —"

"Yes."

"Can you read my —"

"Yes."

She sighed, astonishment descending upon her again, and she ran her hands through her hair. As she dithered about something, it struck her, and she glanced up at Nicky from beneath her hands.

"Honey, I think we need to go to the authorities to make a statement and —"

Silence fell between them when they became alert to the sound of approaching steps. Their eyes darted to the door. Nicky curled up further into a ball, Jody stood up, bracing herself, and Castiel narrowed his eyes, wondering the same as the others: who could that be? The doors opened.

"Audrey?" Jody humbled with relief, escorting her into the room, "What are you doing here at this hour?"

Her presence, after what felt like so long, swept him over with a tidal wave of emotion. His eyes followed her movements closely as though he was also escorting her in by way of looking, and in her evident surprise of finding anyone at all in the room, she had to do a double take of him to properly recognize him.

"I came back for the stack of CDs I bought today since I couldn't carry them earlier," she replied distantly, still taken aback, as she pulled out her iPod earbuds, "What's going on?"

"We were mugged," Jody sighed dejectedly, but managed a small smile when she added, "Castiel saved us."

"WHAT? Oh my _God!_" She went straight to Nicky, who clearly looked the most shaken up, and threw her arms around him. "Are you okay? All of you! Are you guys okay? Tell me!"

"No. I am not okay," Nicky hissed, his mood souring again, but huddled into Audrey's embrace anyway, "These pristine pores of mine have been soiled by my own sweat and tears."

Audrey pulled back, caging him by the shoulders to address him, "Did they hurt you? What, what did they take?"

"Just our dignities," he muttered. Shyly, he peered at the angel. "Without Castiel here, we would have left with a lot less. Or nothing at all."

For the first time since she had entered, their eyes met for more than two seconds. "Thank you," she breathed gratefully. He nodded in acknowledgment, but his eyes suggested he was keen to discuss something else. Jody witnessed that glint and became painfully conscious of the sudden tension between the two. Eager to avoid interfering, she began to gather her belongings.

"Nicky, hun, we should go make a statement to the police," she urged delicately, whisking her scarf around her neck as she patiently regarded the young man.

Though initially irritated by the notion of abandoning the consolation of the chair, he peered up at her timidly. "Will you hold my hand?"

A solicitous smile stretched across her face as she gently grasped his hand, coaxing him to his feet. Audrey's hands shot up, spoiling the heartwarming scene. "Wait wait wait! Tell me what happened!"

The pair swapped glances with each other, and then discreetly with Castiel, before together deadpanning, "I don't want to talk about it."

Audrey narrowed her eyes warily, and then spun around to Castiel, who demurred under her abrupt, expectant scrutiny. "I also do not wish to talk about it," he said, his words humorlessly labored.

Allowing no time for her to protest, the pair hurried to the door and turned back to him. "Thank you, Castiel," Jody said with a smile.

"Yeah thanks," Nicky mumbled, also managing a genuine yet tired smile. He received it with a gracious bow of his head.

It appeared to strike Audrey that if they left, that would render she and him alone, so she rushed after them to the door after breaking from his mental hold. "D–do you want me to come?" she asked.

"Oh, no, sweetie, we got this," Jody replied, pinching her cheek affectionately, "You finish up here with…" she tipped her head, stealing a glance at Castiel, "your CDs. It's okay, we were nearly mugged, _nearly_. It's not the end of the world." Suddenly, she poked her head inside the room; wide, panicked eyes leveled on the angel. "RIGHT?" He nodded. "Right. I'll call ya tomorrow, sweetie."

Her shutting of the door was reluctant. After what he suspected to be a moment of collecting herself, she whirled around to him with a pasted look of composure. "Shouldn't you go too?" she asked.

His eyes considered her for a moment, as if she herself was an option. "No."

Eyes questioning his, she bobbed her head slowly to prompt an important detail. "But… you're a significant part of the incident."

"I believe they have more than enough information required." This didn't appear to reassure her, and he thought, during a fleeting moment of levelheadedness, her reaction was reasonable. It was quite selfish of him to choose staying with her instead of vouching to the authorities about the incident. The strength of her presence made him reckless. Though she looked doubtful, she gave a "damned if you don't" shrug before wading through her box of CDs on the table.

"I appreciate what you did for my friends," she said after a while, glancing briefly at him within her perusal.

Pushing off from the bench he had found himself leaning against, he began to approach her. "Any decent human being would have done the same."

Obliquely, she granted him a cynical smile. He had missed her smile. "Decent human beings don't live in New York."

He stopped next to her. Stared at her for a moment before speaking. "Some do."

Another smile, acknowledging his remark. It was enough to strike out all and every argument for leaving her in the first place. Attraction affected cognition, it would seem. It doused his divine practicality with chloroform so all that was left was raw human desire. Internal conflicts had been put to sleep by the strength of her presence, and it was as though abstaining from all her qualities made them impact him harder upon his return and knocked out that moral sense. A human girl involuntarily bending an angel's logic to her fancy; how compellingly and very wrong.

"Haven't seen you in about a month," she mused, hoping to shake him from the thoughts that had grown to be readable on his face, "Whatcha been up to? Saving more lives? Busting up chifforobes?"

He looked at her with muted amusement for a second, his expectations being met before his eyes. Too proud to appear vulnerable, as usual. "Working," he eventually answered.

"Of course." There was hesitation between her words as she had sensed him moving to stand behind her. The second word was barely drawn out to its full length when he framed her hips with his hands. Desire lingered briefly before her eyes before she forced it imperiously aside. Her blush indicated that she couldn't help the wave of her own attraction washing over her, but refused to let it get the better of her as she attended only vaguely to her errand.

He pressed himself closer, their bodies now perfectly in line from chest to knees. She continued to hold her ground, clinging to that self-discipline, even as his hands stole up her blouse. Her resistance enthralled him and invited him to be daring. He nestled his face into her red hair. Nothing. Grazed his lips against the curve of her ear. Still nothing. Brushing down to her pulse. Nope. Finding that unfailing magic spot there, he gently bit her. It won him a moan as she swooned back against him.

"I thought you didn't want to do this anymore." She aimed to taunt, but his slow assault at her neck robbed her the ability to deliver such a tone. Her cell phone chimed a message alert. All his movements halted the moment she flipped the device around and revealed the sender of the message. Oliver.

"Oliver?" he questioned witheringly, as though word tasted sour. The thought of any other man in regards to her, _especially_ Oliver, raised a sense of exclusivity in him. When he stepped away, she wheeled around to him wearing an expression of newfound morale.

"Yes!" she shot back, beaming priggishly, "I'll have you know that thanks to you, we are friendlier now. And I figured that if he's not seeing anyone, and I'm not involved with anyone either —"

"You're involved with _me_," he said, eying her pointedly.

"Since when?" she asked with feigned perplexity. She blinked owlishly at him. "You broke us up, whatever it was that we had going on."

Though she posed a question, she didn't appear to be in a mood to listen as she finalized her errands in a very urgent manner, preparing to leave.

"That was a mistake," he murmured. A trace of regret hung in his tone and hummed meaningfully in the silence. He knew she heard it but found it easier to spurn him when he was the vulnerable one.

Box between her hands and ready to leave, she smiled thinly. "Maybe you should pray for a miracle that one day you've been relieved of your clichéd lines." And with that, she moved to leave.

He wasn't going to let her get away that easily. Before she could round him, he stopped her by placing his hands on the box, holding it the same way she was, and slowly walked her backwards, eyes pinning hers as her back met the wall. Stunned by his uninhibited behavior, she swallowed thickly when he listed towards her. It was an act of pure impulse when he closed his eyes and inhaled.

She smelt nothing like the Winchester brothers. They always had a salty scent about them, indicative of their masculinities and their livelihood. Audrey smelt sweet, but not garishly so. Like vanilla. Vanilla smelt nice. _Tasted_ nice, too. It made him a little lightheaded. On a less conscious level, he always marveled at how such simple sensory attributes about her brought him a strange indulgence.

"Staring is a non-verbal aspect of communication that indicates interest or curiosity," she quoted in a limited voice, the majority of her effort going into futilely fighting her attraction.

Tone darkening to suit his gaze, he replied, "I've decided to follow up on it." …even though he knew he shouldn't. A burn was sure to come if he played with the flame, seductive though it may be.

His words were read well and her eyes responded to something she saw in his own. Her hands slackened instinctively, and he removed the box from her possession and set it aside. Visual communication did not break as he placed his hands at either side of her head on the wall, caging her as he closed in through the heat and into the last of her personal space. His lips met hers. Almost.

At the last moment, she had managed to obtain a sliver of good sense, and turned her head away.

"As hot as it is to be pushed up against a wall and kissed," she turned her head to him again, desire still in her eyes but only behind her umbrage, "you sir, aren't entitled to pull that on me that easily."

Surprisingly, he was not disheartened. In fact, he couldn't resist the knowing curl of his lips in the appearance of her restraint. She saw it. "And when did you get so smug?" As though her honor had been bruised by the appearance of it, she prodded him away from her and made a distance between them. "Look, I'm not angry," she paused when she turned around, finding him following, and began backing away, "but I'm confused. That night you broke up with me, you pulled that out of nowhere. And I don't understand why 'cause I was putting out all over the place. Unless it's something else, and then – would you stop that?" she shrieked at his undeviating advancing when she backed up against a table, but was not at all angry. "You're turning me on – I mean freaking me out! _Shut up!_"

She stole away in another direction, just narrowly circumventing the angel, who continued to follow. She turned to him to speak, again reversing as he advanced. "I will gladly resume our relationship if you give me a reasonably reasonable reason for why you left _and_ why you've returned and are clearly determined to," she made a gesture at him, "do stuff. If you don't –" Boldly, and though she knew he would welcome the move, she stood right up to him and spoke closely, pointing a finger at him, "– I will _cas_trate you, _Castiel_, from my life. "

He snared her wrist, forcing her to him. "Will you now?"

"Mhm!" she nodded devoutly, lips pressed together in a mutinous smile. When he tried to kiss her, her coy demeanor dissolved and her finger shook at him in reminder, stalling him. "No, seriously, this isn't verbal foreplay. I want an answer."

For her sake, he fumbled for some prudence. Mustered with a resigned sigh, he let go of her. "I have no motive," he admitted difficultly, "As I said earlier, it was a mistake."

"Based on?"

He stared at her with distant contemplation. "Insecurity."

It looked as though she was about to laugh. She glanced briefly downwards. "If it's concerning what I'm thinking about, you have no problem whatsoever."

"No." He paused reluctantly, foreseeing her reaction. "My job —"

"Not this again!" she wailed, throwing her head back, as expected.

"— is demanding, and if I fail to recognize its limitations, then I ultimately fail."

"How does that relate to personal relationships?"

"My mistake was to believe that it does." Because these personal relationships were not supposed to exist, was what he left out. His answer was met with a minute silence.

"Oh," she finally sighed, which he interpreted as one of relief, and God willing, forgiveness. After what felt like the longest stretch of time, she began to amble past him with indolent grace, and he watched her, finding it strangely magnetic. "Silly Castiel," she intoned lowly, being decidedly playful with her L's, "Blowing so much of my time, when I could have been blowing —" Suggestively on time, a click rang through the room. She had locked the door. The implication was instantly in his mind as it readily was in hers, evidenced by the way she looked at him from over her shoulder.

There was a very wicked gleam in her eye. It struck thrill and desirous antici … pation within him. With an almost flirtatious stride, she proceeded to take steps towards him. He did likewise, aspiring to meet her halfway. A quarter of the way, though, she stopped, snatched her cell phone from the table and disassembled it in five seconds, right before his eyes. He jerked when she reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and did the same. She dropped the pieces onto the floor. Stomped on them. Castiel was close on the verge of scratching his head. Was this a formality within fornication?

Although words were inconveniently sobering in this sensual scene (though, he supposed she accomplished that first when she started dismantling cell phones), he had to ask. "What are you doing?"

"Do you want to get interrupted again?" she asked testily. Oh. He understood now. The instant he did, she apprehended his tie, dragged him around the table and shoved him backwards. He landed in the leather desk chair, being straddled by her lithe form a second later. The current situation paralleled the one that occurred those few months ago, when they had officially embarked on this… thing. Not that he was of a mind to reminisce, since he finally had her so closely again, with mischief etched all over her face to boot.

"Jody has one rule: don't have sex in the back room. And you know what? You and I are going to break it."

* * *

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	41. All That Glitters is Not Gold

"Why, good-morning, Castiel."

"Good-morning, Audrey."

The angel and the young woman sat at either end of her stretch dining table. It was the morning after.

Vaguely, he remembered. He remembered having his innocence frantically ridden out from him in the back room; clothes barely divested, only shoved aside. He remembered migrating their acts to her empty apartment, where he had mercilessly coaxed his name, deities and affirmatives out of her. She was a _noisy_ lover. Insatiable too. Her unbridled feedback brought him a strange satisfaction.

It all became a blur the moment she finally _had_ him. Still straddling him on the chair, her underwear had been wrenched down to hook around one ankle, skirt gathered up by his own hands. One hand was then taken in hers, directing his fingers down to work with her. She had felt so… ready. He could only watch and relish the way she took to the feeling, letting her eyes close and her head fall back, crying out desirously. He still couldn't believe he could bring such pleasure to a human.

After nipping at his bottom lip and grazing her hot mouth over his face, she had asked, in a taunting, seductive hiss that tantalized him, if he wanted to take her, but with a word that should very well disgust him replacing "take". He didn't answer with words.

Though his physical body remembered just where to touch, he still insisted on reading her mind like an instructional map, and by all appearances and sounds, it had paid off. He strove to do away with any impression of any other man who'd had her before. To almost imprint himself deep within her, make a mark of possession. Yes, angels didn't have possessions, but then, he decided, he really wasn't just any other angel. All he could think of with every rough advance was _mine, mine, mine_.

She was his. And he had labored to make that clear. Right there on the living room floor. Having to travel another thirty feet to her bedroom was anathema when the libido was concerned, especially after the restrictive cab ride that transported them there.

They had poured themselves through her front door. Lost themselves in one another. He would never forget the way her body curved to accommodate every deep intrusion he made. Nor would he forget the sounds she made, the sounds _they_ made, the clawing of carpet, the thirst of her mouth, the quickened pace, the heightened sensation, more, more, _oh_…

For six hours, she slept, curled up against his chest, while he pretended to. Eventually, she left, and he soon followed, redressing first. That was when he found her sitting at her dining table, swirling her finger around the rim of a coffee mug. When he had been spotted, he took a seat right across from her as she greeted him. She was doing all this, naked. Almost.

"I believe I need my trench coat back," he said, eyes flicking downwards indicatively at the one she was wearing, "and my tie."

"Leaving so soon?" she asked, blinking with affected dismay. She twirled the fabric of his tie around a finger. "What's the rush?" A glint sneaked into her gaze. "We have _sooo_ much catching up to do."

"We have done much of that already," he replied, watching intently as she released the material to let it drop back down between the swells of her breasts.

"Well I wanna do it some more."

"I need them back now, Audrey."

"_Come and get it._"

Slowly, he tilted his head, wordlessly accepting the challenge in her tone but with dark promises. Fifteen minutes later, he breathed a goodbye down into her ear and walked off to leave, coolly shrugging on his trench coat after zipping up his fly. Left behind was Audrey, who was panting into the table she was pressed down against.

Once he was out the door, his small, satisfied smile dissolved. He turned and stared at her door. Reached out, caressed it wistfully. His eyes closed. He remembered her skin beneath this hand. Every texture, every contour, every sensitivity. It longed to touch her again, and he furiously wondered why. Her allure _should_ have waned by now. He had gone all the way with her – shouldn't he feel quenched in some respect? Was the utmost point of human lust not sex? Or had he just mistaken this all to merely be lust in the first place?

There was a war raging for authority within him. On one side were his pleasant memories – the heat of her skin, the crescendo of her urgent cries, the supple curve of her back – and on the other side were admonishments reprimanding him for such wild abandonment and for willingly tucking away the aforementioned memories into his heart. Not only had it been an experience he was never truly meant to know, but it had all been done under the deception he orchestrated for her. Adding further insult to the eventual injury. So _that_ had all been a very, very unwise thing to do.

Sex under false pretenses. It was almost rape. Disgusting.

Nearby, a door opened and closed, awakening him from his introspection. He turned, finding that Audrey's neighbor, Marilyn, had emerged from her apartment room, and as she approached the elevator doors, she regarded him skeptically. The doors opened to her with a _ding!_, and before they shut her away from his view, he saw her size him up with a sort of withering disbelief.

"You can't be _that_ good," she muttered bitterly, before the doors obscured her.

* * *

It was later in that day, and Jody had taken one step into the back room, darted her eyes gaugingly before she _just knew_. One word was uttered. "NO." Seconds later, she was hauling Audrey inside by her elbow, unconcerned to the way she was tripping over her heels. "What is the _one_ thing I told ya not to do?"

Facetiously, she attempted a joke with a helpless smirk, "If there's only one thing, then clearly I haven't been listening."

Jody shifted the weight in her feet and crossed her arms. She was in no mood for banter. "When Nicky and I left, what did you and Castiel do?" she asked tightly.

"We kissed and made up." In the distance, Nicky's head flew up from his copy of _Christianity For Dummies_, and she addressed him assertively. "We did!" Pause. She did a double take. "Oh, and we totally did it in that chair you're sitting on." Horrified, Nicky clambered out of the seat so violently he nearly toppled it over.

"I am soooo glad you didn't die last night!" she cooed, missing the aghast look passed between Nicky and Jody as she ambled around dreamily, "because now," she stood behind him and wrapped her arms around his neck, "we get to do something we haven't done in a while." From the tricky angle, she looked at him pointedly and then pecked him on the cheek. "Girl talk! Yay!"

As she pulled away to prance to the front of him, she also missed his squirrelly squeak of, "Oh God".

"Don't you _love_ the beginning of relationships?" she asked, starry-eyed, her tone suggesting she was not exactly asking as much as she had already expected agreement from him. She took his hands, swinging them from side to side whimsically. "Where it's just sex, sex, talking, sex —"

In her bubbly detachment, his shudder was lost on her. "Audrey, I —"

"It's insane!" Grip tightening, she reeled him forward to secure his eye. Her voice dropped to a fierce, confidential whisper. "It's almost as if he can read my mind and do everything I want him to do!"

Desperately, Nicky broke away, waving his hands in protest. "Honey, seriously, please, stop, please, no!"

As though wounded, she curled her hands back. "Whaaat?" she demanded demurely, "I always tell you about my sexcapades, and you do the same for me. It's like our unwritten law!"

The look he offered was despairingly imploring. "I just don't really wanna hear about… Castiel. Especially not in _that_ way."

"_What?_" she exclaimed, disbelieving, "But you're hot for Castiel! Why won't you let me rub it in?" He shook his head firmly, like a child refusing dinner. Her eyes narrowed. "Oh, I see. You're bluffing. You just don't wanna grow green with envy. You just don't want to hear about how he looked me dead in the eye —"

"Audrey…"

"Walked right on up to me."

"Come on…"

"Forced my body against his."

"Seriously…"

"Kissed me."

"I don't need —"

"Said that he needed me."

"This is so —"

"Turned me around."

"I can't —"

"Bent me over the table."

"I really don't —"

"Ripped off my skirt."

"Please stop —"

"And with all the power in his being, he thrust —"

"AUDREY!"

She giggled. "That didn't really happen. But the deed was done." After one more second of constraint, her amusement yielded to her frustration. "Come oooon, what's wrong? You can't have a problem with Castiel; he saved your life! Is it because he left me? Because believe me," she began to smirk lewdly, "he's demonstrated his remorse more than what's necessary."

"I–I'm just uncomfortable with this, okay?" he asserted in an urgent rush, tossing his hands in compliance, "And uh, yes, _yes_, it is because he saved my life! I don't look at heroes that way!"

Rolling her eyes, she scoffed. "Okay, _that_ is a load of BS. You, Nicky, a guy whose only straight thing about him is the B's he achieved in grade school, slept with the person who pushed you out of the way of that moving bus. And she was a _girl!_"

"In my defense," he shot back primly, "she was a very masculine woman!"

Jody, whose attention had been clouded with shock during this entire exchange, finally mumbled, "I can't believe it." They turned to her, and only under their scrutiny did she finally look up from the floor to stare wide-eyed at Audrey. "You. _Deflowered_. Him."

Her expression contorted bewilderedly, with a tad amusement at her choice of words. "Huh? Are you kidding me? No, I didn't – he most definitely was _not _a virgin! And what are your problems with Castiel all of a sudden?" she hotly directed to the both of them, "He saved your lives, didn't he?"

"Exactly," they chorused dryly.

Their droned response compelled her to eye them both with severe incomprehension. "How… how is that at _all_ relative to the fact that we had sex? And what was that flinch?" she flared at a blanching Nicky, "_You're_ the one that encouraged me to wring him dry!"

The whites of his eyes immediately became very, very visible. "Oh – my – GaGa, YOU _DID_ THAT?" Pressing his hands in prayer, he directed a repentant gaze to the ceiling fan. "Oh Holy Trinity, please forgive me! Oh God, oh my God, I'm so screwed, oh God, I think I just peed a little —"

Utterly flabbergasted, her mouth opened but struggled for words. Deciding that they would be wasted anyway, she spun at her heel with a toss of her hair and flounced for the doors.

"Where are you going?" asked Jody, monitoring her movement. At the doors, Audrey stopped stiffly, before whirling around to them and drawing herself up with an air of great pride.

"_I_ am going to go and fuck the brains out of Castiel." Goading them with a brassy little smile in response to their horrified faces, she shifted to leave but hesitated, deciding to add salt to their apparent wounds. "Oh and yes, if you're wondering, there _is_ a very relevant reason as to why I have carpet burn on my knees."

The doors slammed as she left. Similar thoughts passed between the remaining two through a shared glance. Nicky shook his head in dismay, sighing, "Homegirl is _so_ going to Hell."

* * *

"Don't tell her."

As Gabriel blithely inspected his cuticles, Castiel felt himself bristle with indignation. "You _encouraged_ me to tell her," he growled, his patience exhausted.

After dusting a few coffee grains off of the counter, he waved dismissively with the same hand. "Eh, both options A and B were glamorized at equal measures. Now, I'm telling you to ix-nay on the ruth-tay since you finally copulated!" Consternation instantly displaced the look of exasperation on his brother's face, slightly tilting his head in question. Gabriel, reading this gesture well, smirked and leaned forward secretively to clarify. With a wink.

"I can smell her on you."

Castiel's gaze flitted down for a moment of bashfulness. Gabriel shook his head reverentially. "Unbelievable. You score a human girlfriend before I do." His face contorted knowingly when the angel peered up at him. "And she's a catch, your girl. Superb ass to breast ratio, an IQ of at least two digits, unlike my Brandi…" The instant he noted Castiel's dark look, he stopped trailing off and made an abrupt return to his usual effervescence. "I am _so_ proud of you, Cas! By having your little dance in the dark, you've obliterated both your virginity and the unresolved aspect of your unresolved sexual tension! Killing two birds with one condom."

Unable to share the same enthusiasm, Castiel frowned. He knew why and he knew how he could resolve it. "I need to tell her," he said. Immediately, he acknowledged the vanity of his words. All talk and never any action. His hand kneaded his brow, hoping to stifle the inklings of a migraine. "This shouldn't be so hard," he ground out.

"That tends to happen during sex," Gabriel quipped airily. At Castiel's disinterested stare, he added, "And no, you do _not_ need to tell her. That'll open a whole Pandora's Box of massive proportions."

A profusion of arguments came rushing to his assistance, but in its disorderly approach it became impossible for him to actualize any one of them, so the angel was left twitching his lips in an agitated manner. Needing a moment of clarity, he glanced away and turned his attentions inward. He mentally dug around to find the root of all his problems.

It was easy to pin it all on Audrey, but unless she had strings attached to him and had been controlling him the entire time (which would, ironically, make her the master of deception), he knew she wasn't to assign liability to. There had been a time when she was just another human to him, albeit a rather interesting one, but what human wasn't?

In the corner of his mind, he found the origin. Realization sparked and illuminated his judgments, as indignation and frustration snowballed into one explosive sentiment. Cold seeped into his eyes.

"You," Castiel marched right up to the counter, scowling accusingly, "fueled all of this."

A derisive snort. "What do _I_ know? I'm an archangel and I work at Starbucks!" It seemed he had been expecting this outburst for quite some time. What that indicated made Castiel's glare seethe.

"You have been trifling with me this entire time!"

"As the Trickster, and as siblings, it's obligatory, bro!" he replied jauntily, but his tone didn't influence the angel the slightest, so he sobered. "Just listen here. Her pride is like the new One World Trade Center. Lofty, imposing, and guarded as though its welfare could be jeopardized at any moment. And if you tell her, now? Do you know what that makes you?" Pinching his nose with one hand to induce a nasally tone, he lifted his other to represent an aircraft. "This is Flight 93, United Airlines –" He glided this hand into the arm of his other, staging a crash. "–NNNNNRRRRRRRRR_BSSSSSSSHHHHH!_"

Castiel fixed him with a glare that could have rivaled the sun with its intensity. "I have listened to you enough," he declared caustically, "I should have never grown to trust your word."

"Oh, Cas. My poor, delightfully impressionable Cas. You chew me out now, but I know a part of you is grateful," he sneered. He challenged his harsh gaze with his own, complete with his habitual smirk. "Without me, you'd have never gotten what you wanted."

"Without you, I never would have _wanted_ at all," he grated, "Which is the way it's supposed to be."

"You chose to come to earth, so you abide by humanity's natural tendencies, _brother_." His tone was almost reproving, which chagrined Castiel to be on the receiving end of. Gabriel, of all the angels, was in no position to avail that tone on him. His stern features suddenly slumped into one of farcical complaint. "Doooon't look at me like that, I'm not the bad guy! And you're in no position to throw shame on _moi._" Affronted, Castiel opened his mouth to argue, but he quickly threw in, "Can't you at least admit the stress of the situation is worth the pleasure? That's the beauty of being human!"

"Neither one of us is human," he stated wearily.

"Technically no," he conceded with a dip of his head, "but look at us: in human forms, on earth, mingling with humanity. The experience doesn't differ." He leveled a shrewd gaze upon him as he began to recite, "First John, 2:16; for all that is in the world – the desires of the flesh and the desires of the eyes and pride in possessions – is not from the Father but is from the world."

As he paused to let that sink in, his head slanted, expression quietly eloquent. "You're failing to adjust to the reality that _you_ have been humanized. You descended to earth, operate with humans, became socially acquainted with a member of your vessel's opposite sex, developed emotions, and continuing in that downward spiral into humanity," he listed forward, thumping a fist on the counter, "you – had – _sex._" Leaning back, he dusted his hands, grinning with vainglory. "Mission accomplished… _me_."

Castiel scowled hatefully, both at his brother and the truth of it all. Shook his head. "I am not going bother with you anymore." Finding the words and knowing he would read into them the way he intended, he stepped forward. "You. Exacerbate. _Everything_."

A very foreign expression of indignity grew on the archangel's face, indeed reading into Castiel's words the way he intended. This wasn't just about his situation. This was about everything, particularly his abandonment of Heaven. Gabriel blinked the injury away and drew himself up with an appearance of forced cool.

"Fine by me!" he chimed with a snide grin. He gestured the door dandyishly with a falsely nurturing look on his face. "You go now and rectify the sticky little situation you've gotten yourself into _without_ my assistance. Should be pretty hard at this point since you're obviously in love with her!"

This hit the angel like a ton of bricks, not only because they hadn't been on the topic of her for the past five minutes, but because … well … at second glance, it wasn't a ton of bricks that had hit him; it was one gargantuan piece of the puzzle, one he had yet to consider. And with this quick but careful consideration on the spot, he discovered that it sort of… fit.

Some of his perturbed thoughts must have surfaced on his face since Gabriel then cocked his head with mock concern, ripping him back into the present.

"What's wrong, bro?" he asked, coating his voice with mock concern to match his expression, "You need help getting out too? You really are pathetic!"

Closing with a scathing smile, Gabriel raised a hand. "A plague on both your houses!" he quoted grandly, before snapping his fingers. All of a sudden, he felt himself not only being transported, but _shoved_ into another location, and he was unable to recognize where as he suddenly fell face first into a tract of mud. Nearby, a cow mooed lethargically as the angel slowly raised his muddied face, finding himself in a sweeping stretch of wet farmland in some obscure European country. He scowled.

Assbutt.

* * *

They were in Brooklyn Bridge Park later that night, staring back at Manhattan from across the East River. Convening at night was a regularity for them, and had he put much scrutiny on the whole concept of it, he would have realized that the modern term for this was "dating".

Little had been said to each other so far. Both were too busy mentally churning their day's thoughts, with the hopes that it would eventually generate something comprehensible, to notice that the other was doing exactly the same. Unlike her, a compulsion to air these thoughts had not been gradually mounting to the surface of outward show.

"Castiel…" she murmured, the beginnings of a question in her tone. He looked at her patiently. Eying him warily, she leaned forward against the coin operated binoculars she used ten minutes ago, yet still retained a grasp of during that time. "Did I miss something between you, Jody and Nicky? Is there a detail about last night's incident that's flown over my head or … or hasn't past me at all yet?"

Inwardly, he screamed the truth. Threw some chairs. Clawed at his internal walls. Outwardly, he was one with the crickets. "Why do you ask?"

"They're uncomfortable with you and me… you know, together," she mumbled, idly thumbing the tail end of his tie. Her eyes shot up to his, finding him contemplating her words already. "And that totally throws me 'cause before the incident, they were cheering us on. And today, when I tried telling Nicky about our consummation, he blanched!"

Raising his head a little, he regarded her from above his nose, mildly amused. "Why were sharing this with him?"

"I always share with him my sexual experiences," she shrugged, "He's my confidant." Her brow lowered, "At least he _was_." For a minute, she dwelled on this with a sort of disenchantment, unaware that Castiel was of the same frame of mind. Suddenly she shifted to assure him the full weight of her undivided attention. "Cas, you know me well enough by now to know that I hate liars. Anything that threatens my pride. So, I am asking you now, point blank, with the most open mind, is there anything, _anything_ at all you're not telling me?"

A sigh of long-suffering escaped him. He didn't even realize he had been holding his breath. Perhaps it was air he had been secreting along with those skeletons in his closet. It was time. She deserved to know everything. It was dishonorable to continue wearing this mask and watch her fall fool to it. He'll brave whatever strife stemmed from his revelation; she was worth the trouble.

His mouth worked mutely. A whole speech had been prepared for this, but it was so hard to externalize the words. It was like the opposite of Tourette's syndrome. At long last, he spoke.

"No."

Everything around him seemed to convey to him a collective "WHAT THE FUCK?". The crickets and the stars above were especially loud. He couldn't help it! The last minute notion of losing her was enough to wheedle him into further treachery. His affection had made him selfish. And it was no fault of his that some things were just easier said than done.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, beyond these desperate throes of rationalization, was the knowledge that he was so – damn – screwed.

The answer he provided dangled ambiguously above her and he suspected she would not take it this time. It was as though she caught glimpse of that mask he wore but as he stood firm with it, she came to lose sight of it. Finally, willing to assume she never saw it at all, a smile warmed her features. Her hand swung around his neck and gathered him down for a kiss.

"Good!" she said brightly when she pulled away. Her hand stroked his jawline fondly for a second, randomly delighting in the gentle stubble that dusted his jaw. He took that hand and held it there. Her touch always managed to soothe the tension he harbored, if only for a second. No other being was able to achieve that. There was a power in her softness and he both admired and envied it. His hold of her hand remained, as though clinging to the moment he believed he would never have again once he told her the truth.

"What am I to do with you?" he breathed, mourning her in advance. Inwardly, he answered his own question. Starting tomorrow, he was setting out to tell her.

Her lips curled as an eyebrow arched, deriving something risqué in his words. She sidled close. Purred against his lips. "Do you _really_ want me to answer that?"

… that is, if she gave him a chance to.

* * *

To _Loretta Lolita_, since you've disabled the PM function and I can't respond to your reviews personally: I bet you're disappointed with this chapter, but I just don't write sex scenes, lol, at least not in graphic detail. They say if you feel uncomfortable writing it, most likely it's going to make the one who reads it uncomfortable too, so it would be best to leave them alone if you're not confident. Besides, them having sex in their current situation was never something to be celebrated, since he's adding fuel to the eventual fire. But thank you for reviewing (and everyone else too, as usual)!

Read and review :D


	42. Deflower Power

Irony seemed to enjoy Castiel's company. Too bad the feeling wasn't mutual. There was once a time when he struggled for intimacy with Audrey, but in that campaign he had met more snakes than ladders. Now, he aspired only to sit her down and inflict her with the truth, but every time she saw him, she wanted … _him_. His mere presence keyed the ignition of her indomitable sex drive, and although he knew he shouldn't take it for a spin anymore, it was just _such_ a nice ride. How's that for a metaphor.

It didn't help that he was, in many and most ways, being rewarded for his constant submission, so it had come to the point that he required reinforcement.

He knocked on the door of one of the many New York University study rooms, and it opened to him by Professor. As his accomplice-for-the-day, he didn't look at all surprised to see the angel.

"Is she in there?" Castiel asked intently, as though ensuring his side of an underhanded deal was being met.

The door was only opened enough to encompass a view of Professor, who peered over his shoulder. "She's, ah, right where you want her to be," he mumbled discreetly. His head turned back to the angel, now wearing a small sidelong smile. "She thinks she's here for a private study session." The smile persisted, but his eyes considered him pensively. "I–I know it's not my place to muscle in on," he began fumblingly, "but… are you, are you sure about this?"

"Yes," he grunted, a little irked to hear this question again after enduring it so much in his mind, "This seems to be the only method promising the intended effectuation without fail. At other times, she invariably insists on proceeding directly into sexual activity –" Professor immediately looked very uncomfortable, "– so I presumed, in this environment, she would have more reserve. My aim is to negotiate her attention in such a way that will allow me to be frank with her about who and what I am, with the guarantee that she will listen." He paused thoughtfully. Then sighed.

"She has been quite inconvenient of late," he gravely went on, failing to perceive the look of incredulity on Professor's face at both the word "inconvenient" and the disappointment in his tone. "On one occasion, she accidentally spilled wine on me while I was attempting to tell her, and then became determined to clean me off through very unnecessary methods —"

"OKAY, I DON'T NEED TO HEAR THE DETAILS!" Professor sputtered, chuckling awkwardly to veil his desperation. He extended the door further and stepped aside. "Well, uh, she's all yours, pal!"

Audrey sat at the study table in the middle of the modest room, head bowed and her back to him. He steeled himself. Here we go. The door shut behind him as he drew closer. Professor's presence remained. It had been agreed that he would stand by to vouch for his revelation if called for. He rounded the table, drawing into her line of vision, and once she caught sight of him, he spoke.

"Audrey," he said by way of greeting. She said nothing, but instead beamed brilliantly, surprised but delighted to see him. What a shame that he had to be the one to remove that smile.

"I am an angel of the Lord." She blinked. More substance was needed. "I am an angel of the Lord, which consequently means that God, indeed, exists. Nearly five years ago, God assigned me to earth to do everything in his best interest to forestall what was the impending Apocalypse at the time. Though it was only narrowly avoided, it left Heaven in anarchy, of which I was then assigned to rectify. Since then, I've been entrusted to keep a close vigil on earth, and especially Sam and Dean Winchester. You've met them. Perhaps you remember. They're hunters. They are the chosen vessels for archangels Lucifer and Michael respectively. I often operate with them in their missions to locate and dispose of dark creatures that walk the earth."

Every effort was trained to follow her expression but he knew she wasn't actually responding at all. Either she didn't believe him or she was willfully keeping her reactions in check.

"I hope you can forgive me for lying," he murmured evenly, his solemn expression melting into one of remorse, "I didn't know how deeply acquainted we would become when I first encountered you."

Finally, her eyes stirred, now contemplating him curiously. Then, she lifted her hands, disappearing them under her hair…

… and pulled our her iPod earbuds.

"I'm sorry, what?" she inquired, cocking her head ingenuously. "Cas?" she inquired again when he went ashen. He practically trembled with frustration as he flounced (yes, flounced) out of the room, passing Professor, who was straining to hide the amusement on his face. Her gaze saw him out and stopped on Professor. She shrugged at him. "Hm. Must not've been important."

Professor lifted his brow at her in a "You have _no_ idea" sort of way before his cell phone chimed. "Oh shoot," he muttered upon inspection.

"What?"

"Ummm," he waffled at his feet for a few seconds before stilling and holding a hand out to her, "Wait here."

* * *

Castiel had his temple rested against the wall – not bashing against it, but tempted to – when Professor stumbled out the door. Spotting the angel immediately, he hurried toward him.

"Castiel! I have to leave! I–I just remembered my church is having this thingy I have to attend to in, uh, approximately twenty minutes, so, heh, I'm gonna have to bail." He spoke right over any attempts the angel had made to speak, guffawed as though the turn of events was hilarious, and then began to hustle him back toward the door. "Go back in there and give it another try!"

"Absolutely not," Castiel shot back intensely, abruptly wheeling around and making him recoil. "If I am left alone with her, she'll," he paused, sifting out a phrase he's heard but never used himself, "throw herself at me. Do you know how many failed attempts I have had in the past week?"

"Please, for my sake, I do _not_ want to know. J–just…" he sighed, searching for words of advice but finding he's run dry. "Okay, _I'll _tell her to behave."

Like that would work. Before Castiel had the chance to verbalize his pessimism, Professor reentered the study room. "Audrey! Hey! Sorry, I actually gotta bail; I just remembered I have this other really important appointment, church stuff, I'm so sorry. Castiel has volunteered to mind you for the hour."

Her initial reaction was of willing acceptance, but upon that additional piece of information, her eyes went straight to the angel. There it was, in no time. The gleam. Oh no. He was doomed.

"Oh. Okie dokie, then. That's totally fine, s'all good." With a tone that breezy, it was no wonder Professor couldn't grasp what Castiel could.

A cautionary edge was attached to his tone. "You promise to get your work done?"

She looked with great purpose to Castiel (who inwardly grimaced, knowing exactly what that meant for his future) as she answered, "Promise." Then back at Professor. "You still cool for tonight?"

"Affirmative. I'll be there with bells on!" he replied cheerily, backing out and exiting the room, careful to steer clear of the angel's beseeching stare. Audrey joined him at the door to watch him leave.

"Bye!" she shouted, waving fanatically at his shrinking figure. Once it became obscured by a door, her gaze adjusted back into the immediate foreground, where Castiel was, and a shadow full of suggestion pulled over her expression of childlike enthusiasm that very instant. "Pants off and get inside."

"The room?"

With a growl of appetite, she snatched a hold of his belt and used it as leverage to lug him inside, kicking the door shut behind her. She cradled his head with both hands and kissed him cravingly, her tongue slipping past the defense of his teeth a second later. It all happened so fast that he didn't have time to properly put up his defenses for this. Hence it became so, so easy to respond. Not so easy to stop. Not even for an angel who's known for his resilience.

The back of his legs met the study table he'd been maneuvered into, compelling him to sit down. He fumbled for purchase on the surface as she sidled onto his lap, straddling him. When she gave his neck a sample of her mercilessly talented tongue, he had to fight the urge to roll his eyes to the back of his head.

Why must this feel so _good? _It wasn't fair.

He was losing himself so much that he allowed her to lay him down when she listed into him. His hands cruised up and down her back while she arched over to explore his mouth. He could do this all day if he wanted to. And he did, _so much._

Though it would be painful, he _had_ to embrace that shard of self-restraint being offered to him by his surviving good sense.

Gently, he pressed a hand to her chest, urging her away. Both were panting when they parted. "Audrey," he breathed, "I need to talk to you."

"Noooo, no talking," she mewled petulantly. Her eyes darkened and she added a suggestive note to her voice. "Unless," she sneaked her tongue over his lips and he shuddered at the ache it brought to his restraint, "it's a different kind of talking. Which you know I'm fluent in."

She thieved his mouth again in a competitive kiss, but this time, with all the force he possessed, he sat up, upraising her with him. A whimper spurt from her denied lips when he gripped her chin and held her away. The sound of her greed provoked him, tempted him to simply bring her starved lips forward to his once more, to satisfy _both_ their appetites. But, he refrained.

Frustrated, his voice became nothing more than a growl.

"_Stop it._"

"How forceful you are, Brad. Such a perfect specimen of manhood. So… dominant," she purred the quote, welcoming the new position by caressing up and down his body with hers, appreciating. Her words confused him into sobriety, suspecting it was a quote but deciding not to ask, before he then shifted to his feet. She succeeded his place on the table.

"Audrey, I must say something," he said, finding his grim tone disproportionate to the situation. Especially when she was peeling off her gloves with her teeth.

"Mhm, me too," she breathed. With bare hands, she clawed the air at him in a fluid motion, while making a purring, growling sound. The sight was so silly, but uncomfortably silly, as he had grown to find most of the silly things she did rather charming, and therefore tempting. He tore away his somewhat diverted regard, forcing on a face of absolute solemnity. It took more effort to walk away.

"No," he managed stiffly, "something must be said, and it must be said n…" His word of "now" trailed off when he turned back around and saw that she too had gotten to her feet and was now prowling after him. As they circled the table in a sort of one-sided pursuit, a slow grin spread itself across her face, as though she knew he would be hers in due course. She was a predator hounding its prey. And a part of him wanted her to catch him and do with him what she will.

"I suggest you take a seat," he said, gesturing one of the four seats framing the table they were orbiting.

"I'll need something to sit on. I choose you!"

"Audrey, stop this immediately —"

"I love it when you get bossy."

"This must end at once —"

"What's the matter? I don't bite. Much."

"There's something I need to do —"

"Yes, and that's me!"

"No, there's something that's needed to be said —"

"I'll let you put it anywhere."

"And it's crucial that you listen to every word I say —"

"Come here, Cas."

The torrent of words serving to separate them fell flat to her unyielding tenacity. At this point, she had driven him into a corner, indulging attention to his neck. It slit the throat of discipline and spilling from it was his restraint, and he tried every manual method in closing the wound. He squeezed his eyes shut. Bit his lip. Held her, feather light, at her shoulders; too opposed to push her away but futilely enforced a show of control. The effort was negated altogether when his body reacted in the worst of ways. Oh, the things she did to him.

A frustrated groan began to build at the bottom of his throat, rising with intensity and emerging through his lips by way of savagely kissing her.

* * *

His hand slid down to the small of her back, seeming so graceful in comparison to the rest of her body, which was clinging keenly around him as her peak took her by surprise. Since the force of his erratic movements kept pushing her further back on the table, the purpose of this hand was to hold her in place. As it turned out, being in an academic environment didn't stimulate more reserve in her, but only the obligation to keep noises to a minimum, which she was barely adhering to. If he hadn't been finding pleasure in it similarly, this whole outcome would have irritated him.

A ragged sigh poured from her lips as her head limply fell back into his waiting hand, basking in gratification. Both equally spent, they sagged onto the table beneath them.

"Sex on a study table," she mused breathlessly with a lazy but satisfied smile, "That's off my bucket list." Her fingers ventured up to brush through his hair that was always conveniently messed for the occasion, and along the way she spotted the murk in his eyes, influencing hers to appear the same. "Hey. Is something wrong?"

It was odd how quickly brought down to earth he had been after such consuming acts of intimacy. The beating heart under the floorboards was haunting him in every second of clarity. Gabriel was right; this really was a tale worthy of Edgar Allan Poe.

His hands, which had been gripping her waist for support, wafted up to cradle her face tenderly.

"What am I to you?" he asked, his gaze searching. Her expression of warm patience wilted into one of discomfort, to which he questioned, "What?"

He felt her body urge to sit up, so, to accommodate, he rolled off of her to sit on the table instead, and she soon did likewise. She fidgeted a little, awkwardly adjusting her clothes from her seated position, while glancing bashfully at him.

"I'm not good with this sentimental stuff," she admitted, smiling wryly. She glanced down at him. Lifted an eyebrow. "Well, _firstly_." She reached over, tucked him away and zipped his fly. "And secondly," the same hand roamed aside to knead his thigh fondly as she drew in his gaze to hers, "You are my boyfriend. And I'm mad about you."

"Why are you mad?"

Her affectionate gaze flattened momentarily before finding amusement in it. "No, it's an idiom, it means that I really, _really_ like you."

He peered down at her hand on his thigh, frowning as he pondered her words. "I don't deserve this."

Her brow shot up and she peeled her hand away. "Offense taken!"

"That's not what I meant," he said, taking her hand before it could get away and contemplating it. "I've been meaning to tell you that I… I am…"

"Oh," her face slumped sympathetically, "Oh Cas, babe," she patted his thigh, almost in consolation, "I think I know what you're gonna say."

He straightened up, surprised. "You do?"

"Yeah." Her lips pressed together pityingly. "And I'm not sure if it's really wise that you say it."

"What difference does it make if you already know?"

"I really like you, Cas, but if you say it, it will complicate things."

He sized her up in challenge. "I'm prepared to face that."

She gave him a humored look. "I don't think you are. Don't say it now. I'm not sure I'm ready to hear it."

"But if you know it, what's the difference?"

"Because I'm not sure if _I'm_ in love with you!"

Pause. His head tilted questioningly. "What?"

Another pause. Her eyes widened, realizing her misinterpretation. "What?"

"What were you talking about?"

"What were _you_ talking about?"

His eyes narrowed, sweeping them up and down at her. "I'm hesitant to believe that we were talking about the same matter."

"I don't think we were!" she exclaimed, aghast.

Yet another pause. He studied her. "What were you discussing?"

"No no!" she cried, leaping to her feet and scuttling away. A finger was shook desperately at him. "I–I wanna know what _you_ were going on about!"

"I'm more interested in your concerns."

"Well I'm more interested in _yours!_"

And yet another pause. This was so awkward. Thankfully, his (new) cell phone began to ring (and the ringtone once again had been sneakily set to the song from his Saturday Night Live spoof; dammit Dean Winchester!). His eyes never left her as he pulled it out and answered. Even from across the room, he could feel her blush as she inspected the floor with an undeserved amount of interest.

"Hello? … Yes. … Where are you. … I'll be there immediately."

"Who was that? she asked with forced casualness the instant the phone left his ear. He did not answer.

Knowing she would miss it, he only responded with _the_ slightest of knowing smiles, before moving toward her. It was as if she thought avoiding his eye would refute whatever she thought he gleaned from her earlier misinterpretation, as she continued to stare determinedly at the floor when he stood before her. One hand gripped her chin and tilted her head up, compelling her to look at him.

It was then that he allowed her his most amused of glances he had never granted anyone else.

"For what it's worth, I, too, am mad at you."

It made him smile when she blushed at his words, and she still ventured to correct him. "Mad _about_ me."

"Yes."

When she smiled, he found himself unable to leave. It took some effort to get himself moving toward the door. Her voice stopped him at the door.

"You wanna come over tonight?" she asked, seating herself back on the table and swinging her legs coyly.

"Of course," he replied to her legs, before properly giving her one last lingering glance as he left.

* * *

It was evening. Castiel knocked on her door. For the second time that day, Professor was the one to open it. Both appeared bemused by each other's presence but spoke nothing of it. In the back of his mind, he could belatedly recall Audrey confirming Professor's apparent visitation for tonight, and that he had replied that he would be there with bells on, which, incidentally, he was without.

"Is Audrey here?" he asked. Professor was about to answer when he added, "I need to tell her the truth. I was … subdued, again, today, by her," he struggled.

His brow furrowed slowly with grave disapproval. "Now… is not the right time for all that," he told him delicately, attempting a polite smile which instantly faltered under the angel's severe stare.

"There never will _be_ a right time, not anymore," he growled bitingly, despite his rather jaded expression. "Professor, I _need_ to be relieved of this burden immediately. Let me in."

With all the courage he could contrive, he straightened himself up to respond, "I–I'm afraid I c–can't do that, Castiel."

"I was invited," he stated. His scowl darkened as he took ominous steps forward. "Let – me –_ in_."_  
_

Despite the look on his face suggesting he feared to be smote on the spot by this angel, he shook his head adamantly. "N–not going to happen."

He raised his head, eyes shining dangerously but with a trace of admiration for the boy's quivering but existent backbone.

"I'll let myself in."

Professor's mouth opened, head cocked with the subtext of "And how exactly are you going to do _that?_" when the angel vanished. He grimaced, realizing what had happened. He had teleported inside somewhere. When a scream ripped from the kitchen, he knew where.

* * *

Well damn. That was one staggering drop in reviews in the last chapter. Perhaps I should have left the sexual content out, lol. Thanks to all who did though! BTW, I envy all of you having a white Christmas. Christmas, here, in the heat? And the storms and the rain? NOT CHRISTMAS. Someone get me out of this hell hole that is the Southern Hemisphere.

Read and review :D


	43. Dining in Hell

Audrey pressed a hand to her hammering chest. "Jesus. Fucking. Christ," she choked out. Then sputtered a breathless laugh. "Nicky, why did you just scream like a girl?"

On the opposite side of the kitchen island was Nicky _and_ Jody, huddled together wearing similar expressions of horror that would be most undesired if the wind changed direction. Dumbstruck, together they pointed gingerly at the thing that had just materialized behind their friend. The gesture was received with a puzzled frown before she turned around to inspect for herself.

"Oh hi, Cas!" she greeted brightly, allowing him a quick smile before resuming her earlier task. Had he not been so single-minded on telling her the truth tonight, he would have noticed that she was readying hors d'œuvres. Not to mention wondered why Nicky and Jody were present. "Remind me to attach a bell to you."

"I'm an angel."

She stilled. Then looked at him over her shoulder as though he'd just morphed into a big purple giraffe wearing a sombrero. "Whah?"

Behind her, Jody's face was alight with a wide-eyed stare of fierce objection, searing him like the fires of Hell. Nicky was jerking a hand across his neck, a clear signal for him to discontinue talking. Why were they opposing to this? It was bound to happen sooner or later. Audrey, picking up on his abrupt detachment, turned and followed his eye. In an instant, the pair smiled innocently back at her.

Her attention was snared back to him when he firmly repeated, "Audrey, I am an angel."

All of a sudden, Nicky bolted to his side, laughing with a clear edge of anxiety. "You're gosh darn right, you're an angel! You saved my life!" Once at his side, he put his back to Audrey and spoke to him through a grin. "Omigod, now is _so _not the right time." Why was he saying that too? Couldn't he understand that this had gone long enough? Waiting one more day or so would make no difference.

Again, had Castiel not been so single-minded on telling her the truth, he would have noticed that they were all wearing formal attire.

What she concluded to be an abnormal sense of humor was acknowledged with a mannerly yet noticeably disturbed smile, and when she found she was unable to respond with anything more, she blinked intensively before turning back around, continuing with her task.

"Well then angel," she intoned peppily, "please to be passing me the sodium chloride since Jody is still too busy being starstruck by you to do so."

His regard extended to encompass the background, glimpsing the salt shaker that sat on the bench right in front of Jody. He eyed it intently, an idea forming. Jody, seeming to read exactly what he had in mind, shook her head slightly in protest, eyes screaming no at him. At his side, he could sense Nicky's responding tension in protest also. Both were ignored.

He stepped into her personal space, his chest meeting her back, lips very close to her ear. It wasn't a last minute venture in seduction, but a gesture moved purely by his desire to be close to her for what he suspected would be the last time. Strain etched his brow as he lightly pressed his face into her hair. Breathed in her scent, embraced the texture, remembered the moments when he would grab fistfuls of it. No doubt a kiss would be nicer, but it would make the situation harder than it already was. Goodbye, Audrey Hathaway.

Oblivious to his distress, Audrey welcomed his gesture as one of flirtation.

"_Castiel_," she chided gently but alluringly, responding in kind to what she thought was an amorous advance, "I told you to get the —"

As she spoke, his arm extended out in front of her, palm out and open, reaching. Her sentence was never completed as he compelled the salt shaker into his hand by his own power.

"Salt?" he finished, into her ear. Nicky and Jody deflated instantly.

A stampede of feet was heard, but only Professor came rushing into the kitchen, panting. He considered the silence. Took one step out of the room.

"Do not leave, Professor," Castiel ordered, without looking. Professor complied. The other two inched next to him, deciding to lump their collective discomfort into one social cluster.

Slowly, he placed the salt shaker down, feeling her heavy stare on his hand the whole time. Just as slowly, her head turned to look at him, not having to turn that much since he was right there at her shoulder. His fingers lingered on the silver crown of the salt shaker as he found himself pinned in position by her stoical stare. After an empty minute or two, he scraped up the effort to move from behind her and stand at one side of the kitchen island, well within the expanse of her frontal view. Steeling himself, he looked at her determinedly.

This would be quick.

"I don't wish to lie to you anymore, and I refuse to watch you fall fool to my deceit." With that said, he hardened entirely into complete ceremoniousness, attending to this like another mission. Suddenly the man she had embraced intimately was now an impassive solider. "I am an angel of the Lord, which means that yes, God exists, and you have been wrong to challenge his existence. God entrusted me with a mission to oversee the earth following events that had made great strides toward a potential Apocalypse. It was narrowly forestalled by the efforts of mine and the Winchester brothers. Perhaps you remember Sam and Dean Winchester. They're hunters. They hunt and kill beings of darkness that walk the earth, and ultimately save those in danger of them. I liberated Dean, who had bartered his soul for Sam's life, from eternity in Hell. Sam and Dean are the chosen vessels for archangels Lucifer and Michael respectively. Gabriel, my brother, who you have met, is an archangel. He is _the_ archangel Gabriel."

A moment was allowed for her to digest what she could before he introduced himself, his true self, to her. "I am Castiel, angel of Thursday," he dipped his head a fraction, to ensure her with the full scope of honesty in his eyes, as he said, in an urgent whisper, "and I _swear_ to you, this – is – no – lie." Without so much of a glance, he unsheathed her kitchen knife from the safety of its block. The trio in the background flinched in anticipation. "I can prove it."

He rolled up his sleeve and made a laceration without blinking or hesitating. He felt nothing but her scrutiny. Behind her still eyes, a trace of terror flickered as this was done and as he bled freely for a moment or two, but it was soon passed over by sheer disbelief when the wound closed up as if never existed. All blood shrank into oblivion.

The knife, as clean as it was at the outset, was resheathed in its block.

"Do you require further corroboration?" he inquired. "I can heal others," he said. He took a step forward. Her gaze flitted down when his hand crept underneath the hem of her short dress. Delicate fingers touched the graze along her inner thigh he had left there from an earlier, passionate pursuit. His tone swooped into the darkness of his lower register. "I can heal you."

With one touch and the right idea in mind, it was gone. By the look in her eyes, she felt the change. He stepped away, restoring her personal space.

"If you care to see Sam and Dean again, I can bring them to you." Everyone gasped when he vanished. Five prickly seconds later, he reappeared, holding Dean by the shoulder.

"Dude, what the hell?" he was shrieking, but stilled when he saw his audience. "Uh, where am I?"

"Remember Dean?" Castiel asked, neglecting Dean's bewilderment.

Dean finally seemed to understand the situation. "_Ooh_," he grimaced, looking directly at Audrey. He started reflexively when the angel wrenched up his sleeve, unveiling his branded hand print to all.

"This is the mark I left on his body when I liberated him from the pit," he stated.

Demurely, Dean raised a finger in the air. "I can vouch for that."

His hand returned upon his shoulder. "I'll bring you Sam." Again, he vanished; their reaction was the same. Soon, he returned again with Sam in tow.

"Castiel, what's going — _oh_," Sam uttered, finding his audience quickly.

"You can confirm I'm an angel of the Lord, Sam?" Castiel asked him. "You can confirm that I have literally been to Hell and back?"

His interrogation fazed him at first, but then he took in his audience, realizing what was happening. With a rueful look at Audrey, he answered, "Yeah. It's all true."

Without notice, he vanished again, only to appear a second later, alone. This was indeed proceeding very quickly. His gaze met hers again and locked. Now for the pièce de résistance, his eyes conveyed darkly to her. Darkness fell upon the room. The double door refrigerator behind her opened and cast light on him. The shadow of his unfurling wings flickered into existence, dominating the wall behind him. A common feeling of both awe and terror careened around the room until the refrigerator closed and the lights turned on again. Abruptly, he appeared beside the trio without the use of his legs.

"These three can confirm likewise," he declared, gesturing the trio who jumped at his sudden presence but quickly demurred under Audrey's blank but latently judgmental scrutiny. "Professor has known since February. Jody and Nicky learned the truth when I rescued them from the felons on the street. Nicky had been shot, but I healed him."

Audrey was watching him steadily, as if taking every word that left his mouth and physically analyzing it. He moved forward to her with renewed initiative. "The time you slipped over on the snow, I healed you. The time you smashed Oliver's car, I mended the car. The time my arm was cut by the blade of an ice-skate, I left to heal. The time I supposedly propositioned you, that was initially Gabriel in disguise of me. The time where I'd told you my injury at the time was a paper cut, I'd been maimed in battle."

The directness of his tone dropped to become one reflecting great discretion. He stopped moving to stand just before her, eyes searching hers. "Do you believe me?"

The words of his revelation that had been abuzz in the air sank down and blanketed them all. He could see the activity behind her glazed eyes as she mentally floundered underneath it. He was about to speak, with the intention of assisting her in her introspection, when a hand clapped onto his shoulder. Looking over his shoulder, the hand belonged to Professor, but Nicky and Jody had stepped forward with him. They all wore identical expressions of chagrin.

"You _reeeeeeally_ should have waited one more day to tell her," Professor sighed. Castiel questioned him with a frown, but he got his answer a second later.

A crowd of people came waltzing into the kitchen, pushing in a cart with an impressively tiered cake on it, as they sung:

_"Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, dear Audrey! Happy birthday to you!"_

Oh. God. What.

Audrey was staring absently at the salt shaker when he whipped back around to her.

"It's May. Your birthday is in October." The words flew out of his mouth, desperate for quick confirmation, as the crowd proceeded into a chorus of "For She's a Jolly Good Fellow".

When it appeared that she was in no position to speak, Professor moved to stand by one shoulder. "Her dead mother's name is Audrey, too."

Jody presided her other shoulder. "And it's her birthday today."

As the crushing sense of failure hit him like the mighty hand of God, Nicky appeared at his own shoulder and provided the relevant sad trombone sound effect. "Wah, wah, _waaahhh_."

Oh, God, how he wanted to die. Like her dead mother. Who was dead, and it was her birthday, but was too dead to celebrate it, dead dead dead – aargh, he had been so incautious! Outwardly, he appeared remarkably sober, but internally, he could break a rib by how intensely he was cringing. Liveliness in the crowd began to die (like her dead mother) when they all noted her impassivity.

"Whatsamatta, Audrey?" someone asked through a mouthful of food.

She blinked. Or rather, her eyes blinked; she still seemed so dead (kind of like – who was it? – her mother, who was DEAD) that not even the act of blinking held a sense of self. Then, like ice forming over pools of tranquil water, her eyes hardened. Her latex glove-clad hands squeaked as she clenched them. It was when he was fumbling for some sort of expression of remorse was when she spoke, at long last. When she did, he inwardly died a little (not a lot, like her mother, who was DEAD), as he could hear the rising level of venom in her voice that was only barely being subdued.

"I think you should go," was all she uttered, in a taut whisper that foreshadowed a bleak future for him. His sentiments, both of affection and of repentance, was offered to her with one last glance, and while it floated between them, ripe for the taking, the cold stillness in her eyes suggested that it never was. It was both a pain and a relief to break eye contact as he retired from the room, leaving it silent (out of shock for some, just plain confusion for others) in his wake.

Waiting one more day _probably_ would have been a good idea.

* * *

I hope this chapter wasn't as boring for you to read as it was for me to write. A whole chapter of Castiel saying what _we_ already know and since this is from his point of view, we can't know what she's thinking. Until the next chapter, that is, which I look forward to writing… what she lacks in vocality in this chapter, I assure you, she'll make up for it in the next.

Read and review :D


	44. The Bee Does Quickly Sting

"As you know, I'm still a newbie to this church, and today, I brought someone to share the newness with too. She's been dilly-dallying around this whole practice of worshiping for the past couple of weeks, but finally, she's here with us today, willing to give it a try. So, since I don't want to lose her recently piqued interest, I'd really like to discuss something – which, as a professor of NYU, I imagine I can do well – rather than preach, which is, heh, what the Rev will do a little later."

The congregation rumbled with chuckles, and Professor smiled at having been the one to induce it. His sweeping gaze came to stop on Audrey, who sat in the front pew, a very familiar look of discomfort-but-trying-to-appear-otherwise on her face.

He knew that look. He had worn it himself during his first few weeks in these church services. She was in the same position he had been in: unable to automatically embrace the communal sense of spiritual unity as much as there was an effort being made to do so, not while the subconscious was struggling to reconcile reality with the pictorial concept of religion. In other words, she was still too caught up by the fact that she was inside an actual church – with its French High Gothic style, warm, golden lights and shabby books seated in the rears of the pews – of her own discretion.

"I would like to discuss," he paused thickly, "deceit." The pause was prompted by his continued sweeping gaze stumbling upon Castiel, who had just entered the church. No one, as in no one who mattered in New York City, had seen him for the past two weeks.

It was not of his own choosing to not see Audrey for two weeks. Duty had called, and it was when he found himself resenting his own purpose that he realized how in too deep he'd become with her.

Following "that night", it was in his intention to see her the next day, but, of course, duty had called. Thus, it granted her two weeks to swell with righteous umbrage, without him around to quell it with his defense. Finally, after a fortnight of having been killed by a rogue angel who went kamikaze only to later be resurrected, eviscerating hell hounds, blinding demons with his true form and etcetera, he arrived here at Saint Thomas Church, Fifth Avenue, finding Professor at the lectern, of all people, addressing the congregation.

At the word "deceit" and having Professor's eyes discover him, he tilted his head, suspecting his relevance, before claiming a seat in the hindmost pew.

"Um," Professor stumbled through his notes, thrown off by the angel's presence, and cleared his throat when he found his place. "_No one who practices deceit shall dwell in my house; no one who utters lies shall continue before my eyes._" He looked up. "That was from Psalm, 101:7, and I'm sure my friend here today would agree very much to that. But, hypothetically, I'd like to challenge that with Jeremiah, 17:9; _the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?_" He closed his notes and braced himself against the lectern to gaze fixedly upon his audience.

"What if an act of deceit originated from the heart? As in, it began as something, and beyond one's control, it burgeons into deceit, and the possessor of that heart did _not_ see it coming? That's human nature, isn't it? The fruits of our labor, and, and, and our natural impulses, taking on a life of their own without conscious notice?" he questioned the room at large, but frequented glances at Audrey.

"At Mark 7:20 to 23, it reads, _and he said, "What comes out of a person is what defiles him. For from within, out of the heart of man, come evil thoughts, sexual immorality, theft, murder, adultery, coveting, wickedness, deceit, sensuality, envy, slander, pride, foolishness. All these evil things come from within, and they defile a person."_ These are not, by definition, _good_ things. But they're _human_ things, reminders, i–if you will, reminding us of our humanity and how we are imperfect. Wouldn't it be beautifully tragic if, say, an _angel_ were to familiarize with these discriminately human things?"

"A–and, I'm not dismissing all these things simply as acts of human instinct, I'm not denying them of their iniquities –" at this point, Professor was staring only at Audrey, luring her into his underlying message, "– I'm saying, because they're so human, something so beautiful and flawed, a thermodynamic miracle, wouldn't you think the deceiver is entitled to a little understanding?"

The man sitting next to Castiel leaned over to him. "I have _no_ idea what this guy is saying."

Castiel did. Professor was defending him. Appealing for her mercy on his behalf with the reasoning that she had humanized him, and with humanity naturally came flaws. And it appeared, since Audrey had shot up from her seat and was flouncing back up the aisle to leave, she wasn't having any of it. Professor had meekly gone silent and was watching, with the rest of the churchgoers, as she made a rather huffy exit, but her stride slowed at the last pew.

Her eyes met his for the first time in a fortnight. He was more than capable of holding his weight in the eye contact, but she wavered, finding herself not entirely ready for this meeting. Mustering up her nerve, she briskly denied him her gaze by whipping her head aside, and flounced the rest of the way out, nose so high it challenged the gods. All eyes were now on Castiel, pondering his relevance, before he rose from his seat and followed her out.

Her agility in heels was still as impressive as ever.

"Audrey," he called, his voice as strident as those heels striking the concrete, "I'm sorry."

He nearly walked into her when she stopped and turned around to him. The frown on her face was trembling, as though it was struggling to remain afloat, until she finally abandoned the effort with a resigned sigh. Looking directly up into his eyes, her mouth twitched with reluctant decision.

"I… forgive you, Cas," she fought out the words, smiling so wanly when it was done that it resembled a grimace.

His exhalation was not quite a sigh of relief but one releasing his short breath of anticipation. "Is this true?"

Her wan smile brightened a little, and he found himself attempting one in return. With a sniff that heralded tears of joy, she embraced him snugly, as though she was drowning in emotion and he was the life raft of emotional harmony, and he cradled her in return. Tears left glistening trails down her face as she pulled back to look him right in the eye, and told him everything he wanted to hear. In a tone as warm as the glowing summer sun and as soft as the metaphorical feathers on his back, she whispered that she forgave him, that she loved him and that they would together forever and ever.

Of course, none of the above paragraph happened since she shattered the schmaltzy illusion by striking a hand across his face as swiftly as a viper.

"NO!" she shrieked as she did this, but then started shrieking for a different reason. "Oh, _OW!_ GOD! FUCKING! DAMMIT!" she howled, hopping on the spot as she nursed her tender hand. When he made a move to heal her, she fended him off by eying him incredulously. "What are you, made of _steel?_"

"This body responds to violence," he informed.

"What do you mean, _this body?_" she grilled witheringly. With her unharmed hand, she gestured him. "Is this not your body?"

"Angels don't have bodies. Angels are angels. Spiritual beings. This," he glanced down at himself to indicate, "is a vessel."

This information smacked her in the face. Then, she paled. "Oh _God. _Oh my God," she raked her fingers through her hair, "I–I–I _violated_ some poor guy! Thirty-one times!"

"Thirty-two."

Her eyes scorned him fiercely. "Speak for yourself! And don't you have a policy on homo sapien/angel relations or something?" The question was thrown at him without a grant to answer, as she instead hugged her body possessively, whimpering to herself. "Oh God, I feel so dirty! I need a Silkwood shower!"

"My vessel, my host has passed on," he said evenly, aiming to reassure, "Whenever I have been slain and resurrected, I was brought back with his visage, so this is all me now."

"Waitwaitwait," she hammered her hands at him, signaling to stop, and spat, "_resurrected? _You've _died_ before?"

He nodded. "Three times now."

Her mouth fell open, leaving her eyes to convey her sentiments. It started off as stunned, then disbelieving, and finally vehemently scathing. A finger shot up to point at him damningly as her mouth worked mutely, fit to unleash an angry tide of words, but then she spun at her heel with an uppity toss of her hair and stormed off.

He started after her. "Audrey, stop."

Her stride did not falter as she snarled back at him, "Oh, kill yourself!"

"You must talk to me."

"No no no!" she shook her finger at him as she stopped and whirled around to him, "You are the Milli Vanilli of mortal human beings!"

"What's a Milli Vanilli?"

"I…" she thrashed her hands, speechless, "It's like I'm speaking Chinese to you to right now! You're not adorably naive at all! You're just … appropriately naive!"

"Audrey, _listen to me_ —" His tone exacerbated when she stomped away again, but she cut him off.

"Uh uh! I am over you, Cas!" she exclaimed, turning around and walking backwards from him, "Okay? I am _out_," she sardonically laughed out the word. "This is just too weird —"

"Over… me?" he questioned, his tone ranging from naively curious to darkly perceptive between the two words. It made her stop but he continued to narrow the proximity. Despite his approach, she straightened her spine.

"Yes! Over you, moved on, moved past!" she shouted, motioning her hands to illustrate.

For reasons not pertaining to height difference, he looked down at her, challenging the truth of her words, and in essence he knew he hadn't the right to be so presumptuous.

"That is a lie," he husked, eyes piercing.

Understandably, she scoffed. "You should talk!" She ventured a step towards him. "Cas, _I_ have been an Athiest for twenty-eight years —"

"You're twenty-nine."

"I converted to Forceism a year before The Phantom Menace came out. I lost faith when I saw it." Trailing her words, she shook her head of its misdirection. "Not the point." She looked up at him in determination. "Cas, _you_ make me feel like the biggest idiot in the universe. You spent all that time with me, fooling me into believing you're just a nice guy with strong religious beliefs and ably put opinions, when really you're a _fucking angel!_ of the _fucking Sky Wizard! _who humored me with a modest little argument whenever I expressed my beliefs – _wrong_ ones, it turns out! – about religion!"

He stared stoically back at her, knowing this tirade to be inevitable and deciding to weather it like he deserved. Unsurprisingly, it did not end there. "You have invalidated every single moment when I thought my opinion was at the same level of yours, when really, the entire time, _you_," she poked him the chest, "have been right and _I_," she stabbed the finger to her own chest, "have constantly made an ass of myself to the entire universe, to the heavens, to God, _through you!_" Each was indicated with a flourish of her hand before ending this part of her tongue-lashing by shoving at his chest. He was so swamped by her words that he actually stumbled back a little at the move.

"And I know I'm not the only one in the world who shares my beliefs and what have you," she fumed on, "but the bottom line is I expressed them with such conviction to a fucking angel! DO YOU KNOW HOW STUPID THAT MAKES ME FEEL?" she shrieked from a genuinely intimidating proximity, voice rising in pitch, and he actually took a step away from her. "It's one thing to find out the truth about the universe, but it's another thing to find out that the guy you're fucking had known it all along and pandered to your naivety the whole time!"

"I argued my reality," he contended forcefully.

"You – didn't – _need_ the argument!" she yelled, just short of screaming, stamping her foot with every word. "You could have saved me the effort of making my own arguments – which ultimately and quite pathetically, as I've said, are all _wrong_ – by telling the truth! You don't _tell_ someone that you _think_ a party is a black tie party when you _know_ it is, while that someone insists that it's fancy dress, and in our situation, guess which one of us turns up at the party in costume? ME! _I_ look like the moron! And you got the front row seat to the exposition! Are you happy? Are you _entertained?_"

"Audrey —"

"You! Are nothing but a liar!"

"Listen to me —"

She squeezed her eyes shut and clamped her hands over her ears. "LIAR LIAR, PANTS ON FIRE! LIAR LIAR, PANTS ON FIRE! LIAR LI—"

His hands shackled around her wrists, tore them from her ears and held them while he spoke in measured tones. "I didn't imagine you and I being more than just acquaintances. The reality about me, that I am an angel of the Lord, was initially irrelevant, which is why it was never broached, but as our bond progressed, the obligation to share with you this truth grew increasingly difficult." Tentatively, he released her hands. His eyes stirred hers, upon seeing a glimmer of reluctant acceptance in them, which vanished the instant he added, "You know I'm right."

She cocked her head and stuck her ear out to him, overtly feigning ignorance. "Excuse me? I'm sorry? Are you, are you _seriously_ playing that card right now? Because I have some cards up my own sleeve!" She discarded that affectation for another, and cleared her throat theatrically. "God should have aborted you!"

"That's my Father you're speaking of," he ground out, eyes flashing, subduing her nerve a few shades as he gained a slow, hostile edge, "so don't you _dare_ speak of Him in such a way." He blinked hard in an effort to moderate his composure. Who was he fooling; she was _entitled_ to wound him. "And I'm not trying to provoke you, Audrey, I'm merely justifying myself."

Already, she was shaking her head, at a loss. She laughed cheerlessly as she lurched away from him. "This is insane!"

"Yes," he agreed softly. His intense stare eased as he moved towards her with less of a ferocity, not wanting her attention to be exacted under duress. "I apologize for the distress it has caused you, but my reasons are justified. I _know_ you know that. And I bear no regrets because I've come to know you." His eyes appraised her. "You are… compelling." His stark tone indicated that this was intended as fact, not as a compliment. When the anxiety on her face subsided a little, he pressed on.

"The truth burdened me immensely and I grew desperate to be truthful. I detest lying. I had also grown to respect you too much to watch you be taken in by my pretenses, which were not contrived from ill intentions, I swear that to you." Sensing himself fast approaching something critical, his voice began to wander. "You deserve to know, you deserve it all, as I believe I'm falling —"

Her eyes flew open in alarm. "No don't say it!"

"— in love with you."

Her hand recoiled from its attempt to cover his mouth. Neither moved as the words hung vulnerably in the air, slowly isolating her emotion from her indignation. The anger was still in her eyes, but far behind the immediate vestiges of emotion swirling in them now. Her hand reached out for him precariously, as though it knew this was wrong. Her face revealed little to what her action implied, but it filled him with hope nonetheless. But before her hand could make glorious contact with his cheek, a certain cyclist pedaled right into her. She held her ground, but it forced her back into the present.

"Oh, my, GOD!" she screeched in outrageous disbelief at Mr. Pedals, who recognized her instantly and grimaced at his luck, "Get out of this city! GET OUT!" The boy jumped away from her flailing arms, clawed up his bicycle and fled like a refugee.

When she looked back at Castiel, her exasperation for the cyclist overshadowed her earlier emotions and transferred onto him. "No, actually, no! You can't say something like that and expect everything to be okay! You think I'll just deign to forgive you? This isn't just about you! You have raped my brain with this new reality that is _so_ much to sustain, when for a long time, convictions to the contrary were my only reality! They had been woven into the tapestry of my existence and to have undone it is to _fuck everything up!_" The last sentence had begun delicately, almost sweetly, but her rapidly dwindling composure gave way and she ended it screaming. Looking at him up and down, she let out a humorless laugh. "And, you know, I don't even know who you are anymore!"

"I'm Castiel."

"Yeah! Castiel, the heavenly messenger!" she exclaimed deprecatingly, "Angel of Tuesday!"

"Thursday."

"WHY ARE YOU AN ANGEL OF SOMETHING AS TRIVIAL AS A WEEKDAY?" she screamed, but quickly shut her eyes tight, steadying herself with a deep breath. Once composed, she progressed in a gentler tone. "You're no longer Castiel, the elusive human male with a unique single name like Cher." She had the generosity to indulge him a sad smile as she whispered, "I liked that guy, I really did." It vanished quickly, umbrage etched across her face again. "_You_, on the other hand, are this…" she made a helpless gesture, "… evil …" another gesture, "… _thing_ that I allowed into my temple!"

He narrowed his eyes at this but did his utmost not to let his offense show. "There isn't a shadow of evil in me."

A dismissive noise gladly left her. "Evil is as evil does, and what you did was bad, bad, _bad!_" she reprimanded, poking him in the chest to emphasize.

"Audrey…" he softly began.

"Don't," she muttered, shaking her head at the ground, weary of what further he had to say.

"An angel is _what_ I am, but not _who_ I am. I am a weapon to everyone else. But I am not a "who" to anyone else," his hands, that had slowly made their way up, cupped her face tenderly, "but you."

"Don't fucking touch me!" she shrieked heatedly, ripping away from him. Staggering a few feet away, she eyed him as though she couldn't believe he had the nerve to touch her. It was remarkable she hadn't yet verged on tears, but by the way her arm shook as it rose to point a finger at him, he suspected a murderous binge was around the bend. "You listen to me. _You_ stay away from _me_, or so help me, when I die, I'm getting you so fired."

Refraining a sigh, he frowned. "Audrey —"

"I'm going!" she held up a hand, retreating backwards from him and the conversation, "I'm going I'm going I'm going," she turned and marched away, "I'm _gone!_"

Graciously, he did not follow her. He knew his place, and at this point in time, it was not with her. As she disappeared around a corner, he shuffled backwards and sank down on the street bench behind him. The man sitting on the other end of it tore down the newspaper from his face.

"Hate to say I told you so!" Gabriel sing-sang, wagging his eyebrows knowingly under Castiel's immediate attention.

The initial sight of him took him by surprise, so his remark struck him belatedly. When it did, his expression soured. "Leave me," he muttered coldly, pointedly looking away.

"Hasn't someone already done that to you today?" Gabriel teased. The look Castiel gave him could have eaten him alive, and it only stirred his mirth. "Awww, I'm sorry bro, I shouldn't tease. I find things of bad taste somewhat of a delicacy." They stared at each other with the expressions the other was most familiar with seeing on the other, but both their attentions became snared by the sound of fast approaching feet. Around another corner came Professor, scurrying toward them.

"Hey!" He steadied himself against the back of the bench, panting. "What, what happened?"

Castiel contemplated the bandage on his brow and asked, "What happened to you?"

"What?" Following his eye, he realized what he was referring to. "Oh, um, after you left, you know, _that night_, she kicked everyone out – including her cat by accident, I think – everyone except me, Jody and Nicky, and forced us to tell her everything we knew about you, and in a fit of rage, she, uh," he made a slack gesture at the bandage, "she threw a fruit bowl at me."

"She has _fantastic_ aim," Gabriel commented reverently, casually swinging his arm around the back of the bench, "That's gonna leave a scar. Any chance it's shaped like a lightening bolt?"

Professor saw that Castiel did not acknowledge him, so he did the same. He went on, "I–I didn't press charges 'cause I knew what she was going through, and I knew it would pain her more since you and her are … were … together." After smiling feebly, he straightened up with resumed earnestness. "So, where is she? Wh–what's happening?"

Castiel shook his head and simply stared straight ahead. "Nothing," he answered, "She's gone."

* * *

Please don't be silent after this chapter, lol. :3

Read and review :D


	45. Not So Humble Pie

"… told me to stay away from her. And then she left."

His leveled gaze surrendered to the heavy memory, lowering only for a second before lifting again to his acquaintance sitting across from him to see if they were still listening. It was a Friday night in Manhattan and those out tonight were too busy to grant Castiel and the Cat Lady a second glance, as they shared but did not use a chessboard in Washington Square Park. She looked as scraggly and raggedy and deranged as ever, yet genuinely provided her full attention. Her cats roamed all over her and the bench she sat on and she acknowledged them the way one would a gentle gust of wind.

Tonight, he had been wandering aimlessly through the city, hoping to find a grounds for lingering here but failing, when he'd heard an unintelligible snarl for his attention. That's when he found the Cat Lady, playing chess with no one, and she had thrashed a hand toward the seat opposite her, indicating him to sit. Of a mind to take any appeal for a purpose in the city, he sat down.

Castiel knew of every language ever existed, but her method of communication basically consisted of garbled wailing through spasms in her mouth, so it was a challenge to follow any verbal input she contributed to their "conversation". By some means, he derived a question from it eventually. It asked for his dilemmas, which surprised him for two reasons. One was how she managed to latch onto his trouble; two was how readily he proceeded to share it with her.

It would seem that she was bilingual since she spoke both her own primitive language and English, as she miraculously comprehended everything he told her. In response, she "spoke".

"Aeklrjelkls, shakldjfls optrkfgjlf kijhglkfdkgjldjdf chaguierikjg quakjhd, ubk kolfdjglfd, kedljg, dukfjglfdjgfd vaheuwf."

Out of courtesy, he did his best not to let his utter bewilderment surface as much as it urged to, so he read her mind instead. "Thank you for your kind words, but I don't think she's inclined to see me."

The Cat Lady looked at him for another interested second, appearing eerily sane for that one second. And then, crouching over, she scooped up one of her cats from the ground and tossed it gently to him. It startled him, but he caught the feline without complication. His initial response was to question the point of this gesture, but then he took a close look at the cat. He knew those eyes.

"Rembrandt," he breathed. The cat meowed in response, no longer deploring the angel's presence. Slowly, it dawned on him. He glanced up at the Cat Lady. "You want me to return him to her. You're giving me a reason to see her." The wild hair on her head complied with the movement when she nodded. There was a very reverent quality with the way he then rose from his seat. "Thank you."

A smile smeared across the Cat Lady's face. Then she blinked at him. Black eyes.

He would never admit that the sharp intake of breath was his. "You're a _demon?_" he questioned scathingly, scowling.

She said nothing and rose from her own seat, eyes returning to hazel but regarding him with a slyness typically used by demons, and moseyed off with her dozen cats without further word, a graceful spring in her step. He glanced between Audrey's cat in his hands the demon making its very laid-back escape. See Audrey or do a divine service? On one hand, Audrey was an irrelevant human and _this_ was a demon. On the other hand, this was a demon as characterized by New York (see: Valefar aka "Robin Hood"), and Audrey was _his_ Audrey.

Making his decision a second later, he stepped into a nearby shadow and vanished.

* * *

When he rapped his knuckles on Audrey's door, it swung open slightly at the contact. It hadn't been closed. Tentatively, he entered, noticing immediately that her lights were switched on. It was totally silent, aside from the rumbling sound of the burgeoning storm outside. He knew for sure that her father wasn't home as he had gone to Vermont a few weeks after he had first "broken up" with her.

Something about it all rubbed him the wrong way.

"Audrey," he called, pursuing her main hallway. Halfway, he knelt down to settle Rembrandt on the floor, and as he rose to his feet again, his eyes trailed the cat into the living room. That was when his eyes met with the intimidating accumulation of shopping bags, bound to have originated from the boutiques of Fifth Avenue. If one wanted a place to sit, it was occupied by bags. If one wanted to set down an object, even if it was as small as a wine glass, it was occupied by bags. It's been a week since he'd last seen her, and it became abundantly obvious as to what she had been doing.

Before he could brave a step further into the retail dumping ground and former living room, he heard Audrey's heels click-clacking down the same hallway.

"Yes, it's Audrey James Hathaway – Hathaway, like the actress, or Shakespeare's wife; I'll be using Visa; my number is —" she stopped everything upon discovering him in her living room. "I'm… I'm sorry, I'm gonna have to place the order at a later date." She hung up her cell phone. Flashed him a malicious smile.

"Hello liar!" she greeted, relinquishing a fistful of even more bags onto the floor. "What are you doing here? Can't you see I'm doing splendidly without you?" she motioned the room brimming with purchases before sauntering past him, and his gaze accompanied her, "I've had a little retail therapy, surviving only on the milkshake I had this morning!" She stopped and made a thoughtful face, "It's actually the only thing I've had in the past twenty-four hours, sleep included."

"You haven't rested or consumed food in the past twenty-four hours?" he interrogated, overtly disapproving and overprotective.

"Proving to you that I am stronger than ever! Ain't nothing gonna break my stride, nobody gonna slow me down, oh no, I've got to keep on moving!" she sang. "Seriously, I feel _just_ —"

Then she fainted. He had anticipated it, as she had been teetering for quite some time, so he materialized behind her in an instant and caught her before she could hit the floor. He didn't realize how much he missed the feel of her until he touched her, but he was allowed only a moment to bask in the contact when she came to a few seconds later.

"I'm okay, I'm okay!" she warbled groggily, shooing away his hold as she wobbled to find stability on her two feet.

"You need to rest," he stated severely, observing her being weak at the knees for completely platonic reasons.

The look she shot him was tired, but still decidedly sassy. "_You_ need to get the hell out of my apartment." The expression quickly receded when something appealed for her attention downward. Castiel had watched as Rembrandt padded over to her and now furled around her leg. "Rembrandt!" she gasped, delighted, and knelt down to shower it with adoration.

"I returned him to you," he informed, interrupting their reunion.

After smiling lovingly at Rembrandt for another moment, her expression dried as she glanced up at him. "You sure you didn't steal him and pretend to return him?"

His eyes hardened, not coldly but very seriously. "I would never lie to you anymore." His words earned him a cynical look that brayed a flat "whatever" before she stood and headed for the front door. Frowning, he followed. "You need to stop and rest." The added strength of his tone succeeded to halt and turn her to him. "You know you're tired but you aim to defy everything I say out of spite."

"No, I _don't_ need to stop and rest. I do _not_ know I'm tired and I do _not_ aim to defy everything you say out of spite."

His tone tightened. "You're doing it right now."

"I'm _not_ doing it right now."

Not finding this cute at all, he scowled pointedly at her. Then, he briskly strode right up to her, picked her up, flung her over one shoulder and headed toward her bedroom.

"HEY!" she squealed, beating her fists against his back and kicking her legs mutinously, "PUT ME DOWN!" In her room, he settled her down on her bed, walked away and stood at her door. She eyed him blisteringly, understood his subtext and scoffed. "What, you just gonna stand there until I nod off?"

"If by nod off, you mean fall asleep," he folded his hands behind his back, a display of stoical readiness, "then yes."

"Then you're gonna be waiting a very long time!"

"I'm an angel. I could wait for all eternity."

Her nose twitched in a way that seemed to damn him. After a moment, she huffed, "You're right. You're an angel. Don't you have better things to do than to supervise my sleep patterns?"

"Most likely. But here I am." An intimation to his emotional attachment hung in his tone, compelling her to look away, discomfited. "If you're not going to sleep, we can do something else."

Her eyes widened, slowly, as though disbelieving whatever had struck her initially. "Um. And that is?"

"Talk," he answered simply, confused by her confusion.

She blinked steadily, the mist of a different suggestion clearing from her mind. "Right. Of course."

On some level, he knew what had crossed her mind, which rendered his tilt of his head somewhat pretentious. "What were _you_ thinking?"

Dismissively, she waved a hand. "Doesn't matter." Then she said nothing, instead working her mouth from side to side in an absentminded manner.

The urge to roll his eyes had to be resisted. "So, you're refraining from speaking now? Simply to defy me again?"

His words triggered something in her, and she abruptly beat her fists into her duvet moodily. "_WHAT_ is there to talk about, Cas, really?"

Drawing in a slow breath, he ventured a step forward. "You and I have discussed many things during the time we've been together, but we've willfully avoided the subject of God. It would manifest itself on occasion and we would bypass it, since we both knew it would…" he pulled out a term Gabriel had once used, "… open up a can of worms. It's possibly that, at this point, now would be ideal time."

Her head she had buried stubbornly on her duvet whipped up at him with a weary groan. "Why are you still here? I told you to get out, and I told you to stay away from me. Being around you gives me a needling sense of failure."

Boldly, he countered, "And yet you're not making much of an effort to remove me."

She choked out an aghast sound, her smile nothing but incredulous. "I've _told_ you to leave! Do I have to physically move you to get rid of you?"

"You could try."

The scoff she made suggested her more-than-willingness to take the challenge. She sprung off the bed and marched up to him, rolling up her sleeves. She opened the door behind him, grabbed one of his wrists and started pulling with all her might. It was as though his feet were rooted to the floor. The vain exertion made her cry out but she kept tugging until finally, ripping out a growl, she gave up.

"It's like trying to move the Berlin wall!" she seethed, slamming the door shut and storming around to face him. She flung her hands in the air, reduced to a tantrum. "What do you want from me, Cas? I mean, what's the use? Why must I make an argument when I know you're right?"

"I understand your exasperation only on a surface level, but since we'd abstained from the topic of God, I can't know how deeply your feelings for the subject lie." Another step forward. "I want to know what you've believed all this time and why it irks you to have it disproved."

Already, she was bobbing on her feet like a petulant child in a toy store. "Why, _why_ do you insist on doing this?" she asked imploringly, turning and trudging back to her bed.

"Because I know you have ammunition to exhaust," he replied, leaning back against her door and folding his hands over his front, "Perhaps I've won this battle before it even began, but there's no loss in showing me what you're fighting for."

Another reason was his theory that once she verbally cleansed herself of her Atheism, she would be of a ready mind to reflect on their "relationship".

"But that's just it, isn't it?" she fired back as she sat down on her bed. "You would have asked me why I don't believe in God, but you as the asker, as the believer, the burden of proof is on you. It's up to you to prove X, I can't disprove it if I don't think X exists to begin with, so you would be the one fighting." She shook her head in an effort to clear it, demurring from continuing down that complex line of thinking. Moaning, she leaned forward and planted her face into her hands. "I am _too_ tired for this."

"Then rest."

Continuing with her show of defiance for the night, her head snapped up instantly. "ALRIGHT, LET'S TALK!"

Jolting up to her feet, she flounced over to him with eyes that shone dangerously. He regarded her expectantly. "Firstly, there are two types of atheological arguments: logical and evidential. Professor is, _was_, the latter. He argued with facts that are consistent with theism in a way that provides evidence against it. Sciencey stuff, evolution, quantum physics, whatever. I'm the former, I argue with logic, and I think that's why all this cuts me even more than it did Professor. Even though science is his life, to have it contradicted is _not_ as personal as having your own rationality challenged."

Pasting on a smile, one that was vicious, she then clapped her hands together, keen to do some damage. "Let's start with a few things I pointed out to you the first night we met. Hurricane Katrina, Virginia Tech, the Haiti earthquake, the Boxing Day tsunami," she stepped right in front of him, the fire in her eyes aggravating for one emphatic mention, "_9/11!_ God is meant to be this almighty, omniscient, gracious thing of perfection, and to allow all this random shit to happen in the world is contradictory to the supposed nature of God."

"And, by extension, where's the logic in God creating people doomed for eternal damnation in the first place if he, as an all-knowing being, already knows the end result? Similarly, why would a perfect god create imperfect things, with flaws indented inherently in all of us, carved all of his own hand, and then judge and punish us for who we are? It makes no logical sense! Free will is granted but there's an asterisk: if you don't do what I say, you'll burn for all eternity. What the hell kind of free will is that?"

The pent up frustration and ammunition that had been contained for so long welled to the surface, spilling recklessly. "And why would God drown out the human race? Why would God send a plague upon seven thousand people? Why would God make people cannibalize their own loved ones just because they'd failed to obey him? And why would…" Her eyes stirred out of focus, finding herself short for words, but then shook a finger fiercely at him. "I–I hear there's rape in the Bible too, so there's that! Why does a god so unholy and immoral and most definitely _not_ perfect merit so much worship?"

A searing glare contorted her face, her voice narrowing to a virulent hiss. "Your boss, Cas, is the cosmic Saddam Hussein; Antony Flew's words, not mine. In fact, God created Saddam. He created Charles Manson, cancer, the Green River Killer, AIDS, Hitler, Fred Phelps…" her hands whirled wildly and her voice wandered, fumbling for more material, "… autotune!"

Almost as an act of mercy, she took a few steps away from him. "Now. Moral issues aside, what about the fact that there is absolutely no evidence of his existence? Absence of evidence is evidence of absence! But nooo, theists will argue with the premise that something, or someone is working outside of space and time, something _they_ haphazardly refer to as God, and must have created the universe and set everything in motion, which makes no logical sense, because it implies that there was a time before the universe existed, which is impossible because time itself is a property of the universe. There is no "before the universe" or "after the universe"! And it's with these standards that they've set, that things must have originated from a source, that they try to excuse God from, in objection to any question challenging his origin. They will claim that, oh, he's a "necessary being" that doesn't require a creator. It's such a flight of fancy that's both unsupported _and _unsupportable."

There was a sort of supercilious manner with the way she then pressed her hands against her hips, the vicious smile surfacing again. "Speaking of unsupported and unsupportable, how 'bout that Bible? Someone like me may put forward a few instances from the Bible illustrating God's immorality to a theist, and they will feebly criticize with something like, "Oh, the Bible doesn't really _mean _that God ordered soldiers to slaughter the Midianite without mercy and take the surviving virgins for themselves, no no no!""

Her sarcasm over anything else roused him to look vaguely affronted, but was still too riveted to interrupt.

"It's a weak argument that only compromises the reliability of the Bible, and if a passage of such plain meaning is so ambiguous, how can we pin our hopes on the rest of it? I mean, once the fidelity of major segments of the Bible are discredited, how can you defend the rest? The whole text is undermined if there are any questionable accuracies and inconsistencies!"

She deflated suddenly, sinking into the waters of exhaustion, but she sloppily managed one last shot the next second. "And the whole praying thing? DOESN'T WORK!"

Something resembling reverence gleamed in his eyes as he stared at her. Then, with the slightest suggestion of a smile, he raised his hands and clapped slowly, which only made her expression sour.

"Oh, don't patronize me with your applause, Cas," she muttered, dragging her feet back to her bed and sinking down on it defeatedly. "I know, _now_, that God exists."

"I'm not patronizing you," he replied lightly.

"Aren't you gonna defend yourself?" she forced out the question gruffly, sore in defeat, "Aren't you gonna correct my misconceptions and redignify your God?"

He _should_ feel indignant to her misconceptions and he _should_ feel superior in possessing the truth. And yet, his consideration tended only for her sake. If only she knew the things she did to him.

He considered all this before he spoke. "No." The subtle change in atmosphere gave him clearance to approach her. "I asked you to strike me with everything you have, without pulling your punches." He stopped right by where she sat on the bed. "Why would I take reprisals?" With great discretion, he slowly sank down to sit next to her. "You know the the truth now. There's no need for me to belabor the reality by thrusting evidence upon you, especially since I've already done that in some way. As you've said, it's more than you can sustain."

Though she looked straight at him, her eyes were strictly introspective, as though using him to assess herself and her new reality. "It doesn't make sense," she mumbled in small voice.

"Remember what I once told you," he murmured, watching at her wringing hands and doing his utmost not to reach over and embrace them, knowing she wouldn't let him. He looked up at her awaiting eyes. "It's not as simple as you believe. It's a labyrinth of obscurities you cannot fathom until you cross over." His gaze was fixed yet compassionate, aiming for what he said on either side of this pause to sink in properly. "You are surrounded by many beautiful things, creations of God, but few real things. Real things are truths that do not require your attention. At least not yet."

He didn't realize he had been slanting forward to her until he straightened up. "Don't focus on the reason for your existence. You should continue focusing on your many reasons to live." His thoughts began to expand beyond Audrey. "This is why it's better for humanity to remain in a quiet ignorance of things of the divine. Such things simply exceed the reach of your capacities, which is what God intended. And people aren't wrong to doubt His existence, because with the current state of the world, they have reason to be, but it's when people claim to understand His nature that they are wrong."

His words lead to a silence filled only by the rain, and the vestiges of the conversation prior ringing in their ears. They stared at one another longer than what was necessary. Their eyes communicated in silence, but strangely, _disappointingly_, they didn't seem to be on the same wavelength anymore. In a vain attempt to find it again, he shifted closer to her on the bed. She renewed the space by shifting away from him. It was such a tiny move but it made him feel so … _rejected._

"It feels … nice to get that off my chest," she murmured distantly, staring forward. Even with her eyes turned elsewhere from him, he was relieved to see that its intensity had dimmed, as though her internal storm clouds were ebbing away after the tempest. Something in her tone, also, had told him that she was slowly but surely making peace with the situation.

With the lethargy of someone who had been sedated, she turned those faint eyes to his, that watched her with a more abstract concern than emotion. Calmness waned and hope swelled when she began to list forward to him. Her eyes veered downward.

She was going to kiss him.

When her eyes closed, he did the same, relishing her nearing warmth as their proximity narrowed, without seeing it. Then, the bed rocked at an added weight, and then a snore. He opened his eyes.

She had fallen asleep.

* * *

I hope everyone had a lovely Christmas!

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	46. Poker Face

The press of time around him was closing and if he wasn't proactive, she would slip between his fingers forever where she already had scarce purchase on. So, after abiding by her side for a few hours of the night (he had found himself reluctant to leave right away when she looked so peaceful and pretty while she slept … and surprised him by mumbling the entire script of The Breakfast Club – this "Brian" character seemed awfully depressed!), he appeared at the doors of Starbucks the next morning and swept determinedly for the counter.

The prize, if you will, that was Audrey could be his if he played his cards right, and so engrossed was he by this notion that he hadn't the time or the mind to realize that he was humbling himself for a certain archangel's help.

"I'm aware that I had said I didn't require your opinion anymore, but I sense she's coming around. Tell me how can I influence her into my favor."

The back of whom he assumed was Gabriel turned, revealing that it indeed was not Gabriel. The stranger smiled.

"Good morning, sir! What would you like to order today?"

Before Castiel could carry out his trademark head tilt, a vibrant voice sought him. "Over here, bro!"

Turning, he spotted Gabriel lounging in the corner, waving him over. Not before casting a brief look at the employee out of good manners, he hesitantly made his way toward the archangel.

In spite of how earnestly the opposing sofa was gestured to him, Castiel did not sit. Instead, he studied him warily.

"Why are you here and not _there?_" he asked, tipping his head back toward the counter to indicate. Again, the seat was insistently motioned until he finally complied. When he did, Gabriel cast the room a theatrically suspicious glance, then leaned forward furtively.

"This is a normal Starbucks now!" he informed, secretively but brightly, before leaning back. "Thank your lucky stars that geezer had his back turned when you popped into existence just then."

"That doesn't answer my question."

His literalness earned him a wry smile, but Gabriel assented to the question anyway. "Manhattan? Yeaaah, it's not for me anymore. Everyone's so jaded here. You can't really differentiate the good from the bad, therefore I don't know who to mess with." He leaned forward confidentially and plunged his tone into the darker part of its range. "Now, _Vegas_, humans go there _already_ bargaining to meet a little hullabaloo, and I'm willing to be bountiful in exceeding those expectations for the nogoodniks Las Vegas has in abundance."

Resuming normal stance, he casually took a sip of coffee.

Then, in one breath, he added, "That, and Brandi had been double-crossing me the entire time so I had to kill her." At the look on Castiel's face, he dryly clarified, "The demon, Cas; the vessel is fine. So _damn_ fine," he sighed wistfully. "And, because I killed her, I suspect her League of Extraordinary Demons will be coming after me," he smirked at the sight of Castiel's noticeable shift into grim professionalism, "so I'll lead them to Vegas, the city of sin, where I'll give them one hell of a show."

The look Castiel fixed him with aimed to be commiserative, but appeared searching. "I'm sorry you have to do that."

"I'm not! I really _am_ bored with New York. There's only so many laughs I can get from a Wall Street fat cat and other such yuppies." Amused to see that Castiel's intent stare didn't change either way, he smirked, but kept his mirth to himself. "I'll be hopping around Vegas," he rambled on airily, "I can't and won't be establishing myself under one camp like I did here, so, without the effort," his exuberant levity dampened, just a little bit, "you won't be able to find me."

It brought new significance to this impromptu meeting, and it took Castiel by surprise.

"I see," was all he mustered.

His reaction, though limited, made Gabriel furrow his brow. "Heeey, turn that frown upside down, we had a good run!" he chimed reprovingly. "And what an adventure we had! I got laid, you lost your virginity… hm, probably shouldn't have mentioned those two occurrences one after the other."

The humor bounced right over the angel's head. "Are you open for one last request for your guidance?"

Gabriel regarded him in silence, and he looked as if he was itching to make a joke but was remarkably aspiring to attend to this with more seriousness. Overcoming that urge finally, he spoke.

"Cas, we were both in relationships. Peculiar ones, but relationships no less. You were the deceiver in yours and Brandi was my deceiver in mine." An eloquent dipping of his head. "And I _killed_ her." Eyes twinkling, he concluded, "I have noooo advice for you anymore."

The angel was allowed no time to dwell on that before the archangel shot to his feet. "Anywho! I gotta go! The town isn't gonna paint itself. And I have to jump out of the trunk of a car as a naked Asian by nine." When he then donned a pair of Elvis sunglasses, Castiel swore he could hear faint strains of "Viva Las Vegas" resounding out of nowhere.

The smile Gabriel bestowed him – roguish but genuinely affectionate, with eyes surely sparkling behind those shades – would linger long after he vanished. "I'll see you around, Castiel."

And then he was gone.

* * *

Castiel was exemplifying many qualities of a stalker. Where he stood in the Barnes and Noble of Fifth Avenue, he already knew Audrey was only one book shelf away from him, five steps to the right, turned at a south east bearing, nose in a paperback copy of Peter Pan. It had been approximately forty three seconds since he last stole a glance around the corner. Her clothes were as jazzy as ever, her hair was as red as ever, her skirt was as sinfully short as ever, her legs were as – you get the idea. Her aesthetic pretentiousness stood her out among the generic color scheme of the book store.

Was it normal to feel, be and act so pathetic and reckless in love? Frankly, he could do without this part of the experience. Sure, it was thrilling, but in an "I really shouldn't have eaten that last enchilada" sort of way. The other part of the experience, where she would always be close to him, now _that_ was pleasant. Bring that back, fate.

When she wandered into his aisle, swamped in her book, his alarm shot up like the head of a meerkat. Don't bring it back _now_, fate!

He drew out the nearest book within reach and pretended to read it as he turned to exit the aisle the opposite way, but was disgruntled to find a store clerk ultimately blocking the way with her very ample size. There was no way he could even attempt to pass her without indirectly insulting her. Audrey glanced up from her book and over to the movement in her peripheral vision. She had to give him a double take before her startled expression dissolved into one of irony.

"Still stalking me, Castiel the friendly angel?" she sneered, halfheartedly, as though he wasn't worth the effort or inventiveness anymore. Her ensuing move to walk away was deferred when her gaze dropped to the book in his hands. "What are you reading?" she asked, angling for a tone of indifference but falling flat.

"I'm reading, uh —" Furrowing his brow, he peered down at the book. It was upside down. Smooth. He tipped the book back towards him to glimpse the cover, and as if holding it upside down wasn't mortifying enough, he realized he was reading the Karma Sutra. _Real_ smooth.

To make matters worse, the portly clerk who had been blocking his escape pushed past the pair, but not without remark.

"Truth be told, this isn't the first time I've seen a man look at that book upside down."

He blinked away the inklings of embarrassment that were begging to subdue him, and instead found solace in the way Audrey was chewing on her lip as a means to conceal her treacherous amusement. She noticed him catching onto her actions, then snapped her book shut as violently as a bear trap and held it to her side as she flounced off into another aisle.

Sigh. Whenever people, namely the Winchester brothers, were angry at him for whatever reason, their methods of abuse, whether verbal or nonverbal, would simply glance off of him. But he couldn't stand _her_ being cross with him. It was such a foreign, ill-fitting aspect that rendered her a completely different person. How very far away her flirty, happy-go-lucky disposition seemed at this point. He would take Can't-Keep-Her-Hands-Off-Of-Him Audrey over Go-Away-And-Leave-Me-Alone Audrey. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned indeed.

Briskly but not frantically, he followed her. "How do you feel?" he inquired.

As she raked her eyes indiscriminately over the spines of the books, she spoke absently to him. "Can't be sure. You've introduced a whole new reality to me and it should hound me like a bad joke, but it's on such a ginormously enormous scale that I can't even wrap my head around it. It like, cancels itself out or something."

This made him stop. "You've made peace with it," he concluded.

"I wouldn't say that," she intoned lowly, eying him obliquely for a second, "I'd say I'm resigned to it on some level. There's nothing I can do about it, and I can't change anything."

He nodded vaguely, accepting this answer over nothing. His next question thwarted her plans to pursue another aisle.

"Does this mean I've earned your forgiveness?"

She stopped. Then turned, almost reluctantly, and finally regarded him in fullness. It was a long regard taken in a thoughtful silence, as though contemplating his question and her answer _and_ questioning her own willingness in vocalizing it, before she spoke.

"I feel like I'm begrudgingly excusing you on a technicality," she replied tightly, almost enunciating her words with great care. Instantly, she soured at the sight of his expression. "Don't look so pleased! That's not a good thing!" She marched over to him, her tone searing. "Do you know who else got let off the hook on a technicality? O.J!" She deflated from her angry stance and, with a sigh, leaned against the shelves. "I'm not like Professor; I don't think making any rash lifestyle changes is gonna help my soul or anything. I have to live with it and die with it. And whatever comes after that."

There was an undertone of inquiry in her last sentence, to which he observed, "You have questions."

Her smile was sardonic. "And _you're_ not gonna answer them."

Instead of smiling at her shrewdness, he gave her a defeatist look. "I can't. I told you, it —"

"It exceeds my capacities," she finished sullenly, "yeah, you told me."

Her tone of voice made him frown, sensing that this truth was being interpreted in a very personal way. "I don't mean that disparagingly," he firmly reassured. A look of belief grew on her face despite her reluctance, encouraging him to press on; his hard eyes softening as his tone did. "You know I would tell you anything and everything if I had the ability to clarify such things to you."

Folding her arms, she scoffed. "_Do_ I know that?"

"Yes, you do." The depth of implication in his tone seduced her attention and their eyes met squarely. Straightaway, she saw it in his eyes – how he felt about her – which is why she had been avoiding looking directly at them. After a long moment of holding her captive with its sincere but seldom shown emotion, he blinked it away and lifted his chin a fraction. "You and I need to talk about this."

As quickly as his expression had changed, hers did too, appearing flippant within a second. "About what?"

"Our relationship."

"What relationship?"

This made him pause, taking him by surprise by how much it cut to the quick. It shadowed his face as he pressingly contended, "It's _not_ a lie."

"It is to me!" she exclaimed, abruptly reviving from her indolence and shouldering off from the shelves, "It's like finding out you've been cheating but I've been the mistress the entire time!"

"But you're not."

A fruitless toss of her hands. "_I know,_" she sighed, shifting her weight, equally uncomfortable on each leg, "This is such an uncommon scenario." Her eyes, that had been wandering the floor, stopped at his feet, and suddenly she felt compelled to look up at him. "Cas, what you did, and how it made me feel, was a very bitter pill to swallow. You were always a whole leap of faith ahead of me. But then, I keep asking myself, what else could you have done? I mean, you could have told me sooner, but more than likely, I would reacted just the same."

What left his mouth was potentially self-compromising and he regretted it instantly. "Not if we hadn't been intimately involved."

It struck her at once as being a good point. Then, astonishment struck her that he had been the one to provide it. "That's true," she said, blinking with surprise, "I guess it had to rely on good timing."

"I don't seem to have any," he muttered. There was the slightest touch of a smile at her lips in response, but when it vanished a second later, he supposed he could have imagined it.

"I'm at a loss," she mumbled, inattentively fingering the price sticker on the Peter Pan paperback in her hands, "Deceit in a relationship usually leads to its end, but this kind of deceit is singular, and you're not just any other guy." She fixed him a vaguely humored look. "You're not even a guy! This is just as much of a lesbian relationship as it is a heterosexual one!"

This bewildered him into honesty. "Lacking a gender doesn't imply I have both. It should satisfy you enough to know that you… stimulate my more male sensibilities."

A blush snuck up on her before she could avoid it. In a frantic attempt to hide it from him (though he had witnessed its manifestation immediately), she turned and paced out of his scrutiny.

"I'm trying to convince myself that in your position you had little to no options, and also," she turned around and tentatively lifted her gaze to him, "I humanized you. That's an achievement, right?"

Her words were considered with a tilt of his head. "I wouldn't say achievement, for it implies a positive outcome. An angel of the Lord, the purest being, a divine warrior of Heaven, becoming tarnished by human qualities is not a positive outcome." When her brow shot up, he took it for indignation, to which he carefully added, "Please don't be offended. I didn't mean for any derogatory connotations in saying that, but that's the reality when viewed in Heaven's perspective."

She blew out a breath, stoically accepting this pledge of defense, before blinking owlishly. "And what's _your_ perspective?"

There was a pregnant silence, both sensing the great urgency for whatever answer he issued.

"I've come to appreciate what you've done to me," he stated, slowly but great commitment, "but it's not worth it if you're not mine."

Dejection and amusement bred a hybrid expression on her face. Amusement bested and she sputtered a chuckle. "When you say awkwardly sweet things worthy of a Taylor Swift song like that, it makes it hard for me to remember why I should hate you." Her eyes darted aside and she lightly added, "But it does remind me why I hate Taylor Swift." Shrugging blithely, she turned and walked off.

Frowning, he followed her insistently. "I thought you were attempting to find reasons to reprieve me."

"I'm very conflicted at the moment," she said, diverted by her intense perusal of a shelf, but stopped to eye him up and down. "Regardless, it's hard to be wholly attracted to you when you're… dead."

The word earned her a critical look from the angel. "I'm not dead. I'm simply not living, unborn."

She lifted one very sarcastic eyebrow at him. "Oh, so that's okay then!" she sneered. "And this," she gestured him overall, "isn't even your body!"

"It is now."

"This isn't Finders Keepers, Cas! This guy had parents who conceived him, and from a couple of cells he became this. And whether he's in there or not —"

"He's not."

"— it's not yours."

"And because of that, it negates whatever you feel for me."

"You say it like I'm being unreasonable," she retorted, a defensive edge in her tone. Dropping it as futile, her gaze slumped to the floor. "Maybe I just need some M-E time. Mental Enlightenment time."

As her thoughts strayed, she did too, and he was considering leaving her be when he decided to boldly venture another thought of his own.

"There are a lot of things about you that I should have an aversion to," he stated, succeeding to make her stop and steer her attention to him. When under it, he advanced on her. "You're pretentious, wanton, bumptious, acquisitive, importunate —"

"Oh, golly gee damn, Cas, flattery will get you nowhere," she chimed in flatly, batting her lashes insolently.

"— audacious." He stopped before her, eyes shining with significance. "And yet, I don't despise these qualities."

All vestiges of mockery faded from her face, but reappeared only weakly when he added, "I especially admire your temerity."

"How fortunate, Cas, since you're on the receiving end of it," she snarked sweetly. "And besides, I see the point your making, but you're identifying my qualities. You being in another guy's body is not a quality. It's a… an abnormality, through and through. I mean, if I were to meet you in Heaven, would I see _you_, or this guy? It can't be this guy since he's already chillin' up there, bearing his rightful visage." She shook her head with a jolt. "I don't even want to think about that. It's weird and wrong and creepy and I want nothing to do with that."

So, _that_ was virtually the only bar in the road? Immediate lack of attraction? This notion was regarded with withering disbelief, and it demonstrated on his face. He took a formidable step forward.

"Tell me," he husked, "Do you feel disgust whenever you think about what we've done?"

There was something about the way he referred to it, like an act of wickedness, that flustered her for a second, before she very soberly answered his question.

"Yes. In theory. Pleasant experiences stay pleasant experiences. It's hindsight that can be off-putting." When his expression didn't stir the slightest, she exhaled raggedly. "_Look_, when you date a guy, you like them for who they are, on the inside and the outside. This," she gestured him, "right here, consists of two guys. You're the inside, someone else is the outside."

She walloped him with her "duh" look. "_That's_ bizarre, to put it lightly, and it wipes out any appeal. I look at you?" She eyed him determinedly for a few seconds, then shrugged. "Not attracted. I touch you?" She ran her hands firmly down his chest, then shrugged. "Not attracted. I kiss you?" She pecked him lightly on the lips.

Although she pulled away, she didn't retreat far enough to convince him of her assertion, as she lingered one inch away from him, finding herself unable to completely withdraw from the closeness. Not attracted? Of _course_ she was. She just needed a reminder of it. Before she could come to her senses, he swooped forward and gripped her face with both hands. He took her mouth with his as he guided her roughly against the the wall, kissing her until she forgot her name.

A moan reflexively knocked out of her upon impact. Soon, it became one relishing and returning the gesture in earnest. A hand wreathed around his neck to angle him to perfection.

The kiss was different from the others they've shared. This was frantic, greedy, harsh. If she wanted a reason to be attracted to him, then he was going to give it to her. Pass on a trove of memories through the most _un_angelic kiss; memories of every moment he'd had her and she'd willingly taken from him.

His tongue stole into her mouth and lapped as mercilessly as it had once done on another occasion, knowing the memory would inundate her and reminiscently tease that tiny bundle of nerves from within. His palm slithered down her front without modesty to snake around her waist and splay on her back as he savored the taste of her. It was his to savor and his alone. The other brushed up to take a possessive fistful of her hair, conducting her to submit to the movements of _his_ lips and not the other way around.

It was all welcomed and responded to accordingly, as she chirred into his mouth and pushed her chest to his, an implicit plea for more, just _more_.

When he lifted his mouth from hers and stepped away, she was panting. Her eyes were clouded when they opened to his, that were glittering.

Blinking slowly through the clearing mist, she swallowed thickly. "N–not… attra–attracted." She licked her lips and her eyes snapped to focus, ignited with panic. "I, ah… I–I gotta go!"

Her dash for a quick escape was intercepted when his hand shackled around her wrist, and the force of her abrupt standstill spun her around to him. Although he had every motivation to look pleased with himself, he instead, with a gaze, implored her to stay. This was more than just attraction, and he knew she felt it too.

For the longest, most discouraging minute of stillness, she stared at him undecidedly. He could almost see the see-saw of decision teetering favorably towards "Leave" rather than "Stay". Then, her free hand stretched out, extending to him the book she had miraculously kept a hold of.

"Read this and then come see me," she said blandly. He accepted it from her precariously, as though suspecting this all to be a huge scam, and then painfully watched as she walked away from him the instant it left her possession. When he reasoned that this may never happen again and she would be his if he just opened up that book, he did exactly that. Oh, the things he did for her.

Chapter one. _"All children, except one, grow up…"_

* * *

Now I'm tempted to write a spin-off about Gabriel in Vegas. It would be The Hangover with an archangel and demons. Must. Not.

By the way, _this_ is the third last chapter.

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	47. Dessert at Tiffany's

Why Audrey gave him that book to read was beyond him. It had _nothing_ to do with them, or romance in general; nothing but a fundamental theme of family and childhood which, while lovely, was irrelevant. Though, perhaps he had been wrong to presume that it was meant to fall into relevance with their situation in the first place.

It was raining when he appeared along Fifth Avenue, and although the city lights glanced off the glistening roads gorgeously, his attention magnetized straight to the flash of red hair ahead of him, shrouded by her bumblebee umbrella. As he made his way toward her, he took the chance to give her a good look. He hoped it didn't class as objectification, but he couldn't help but feel possessive of her. The degree of exclusivity he desired to have with her was almost oppressive. This was what happened when an angel finds its first possession.

Two other umbrellas haunting either side of her rotated around, and the individuals beneath them jumped at the sight of him.

"Jesus Christ," wheezed Jody, steadying her heaving chest with a hand. It occurred to him that her use of the name contradicted her Jewish convictions.

"Does this mean you've accepted him as your messiah?" he inquired, dead serious to the point of comedy.

No doubt Jody must have been feeling bitter about being off target with her beliefs, and to be reminded made her scowl. Nicky pushed for his attention by stepping forward, a nervous smile in place.

"Hi! I've been meaning to ask you this for a while now," he opened sheepishly, "Does God _really_, you know, hate fags?" When the angel's eyes stirred confusedly, he clarified, "Homosexuals."

Castiel shook his head. "No."

Nicky's knees bucked from a mighty wave of relief. "Oh, thank God! Literally, thank God!" Racing over to the nearest tree that bedecked the walkways just outside the Tiffany's store they were all loitering by, he swung off of it like a rag doll and held out his umbrella, à la Gene Kelly in Singin' in the Rain. "Hear that, world? I'M GAY AND GOD LOVES ME!"

"A little louder, Nicky, I don't think they heard you over in Tijuana." That came from Audrey, who had been calmly watching the exchange without any inclination to intervene, and finally his eyes met hers. Jody, witnessing the look, stalked over to Nicky without delay and pried him from the tree, blew a whistle through her fingers and hailed a cab.

"Oh, would you look at the time!" she wailed, practically booting Nicky into the vehicle, "Sorry we gotta scoot so soon, darlings; I have a, ah, cake… party to attend to tomorrow morning, and Nicky has, er, is having an anal Pap smear done."

"JODY!" he shrieked, aghast, shooting her a look as though she had vomited all over his Louboutins.

"It was the first thing I thought of," she excused through a forced grin, but then it vanished altogether when she very soberly added, "Seriously honey, you should go get one anyway."

Audrey gave them a halfhearted wave as the cab pushed from the curb. When it disappeared around a corner, she turned and studied the angel for a few seconds before she rolled her eyes.

"Well don't just stand there in the rain, get over here," she muttered, her tone one of tired exasperation, motioning him over with a toss of her hand. Once he joined her under the umbrella (the red heels she wore today brought her at a practicable height), he withdrew the book from his trench coat.

"I finished the book," he informed, watching her eyes for a reaction. Only an eyebrow lifted at him.

"It took you a _week and a half_ to finish a children's book?"

"As a matter of fact, I completed it in under sixty seconds," he stated, a slight air of superciliousness, "but I was then summoned for my assistance by Dean Winchester." The book was not granted another glance as he held it up to indicate. "What was the point of this?"

She tried to measure up to his intent stare with her own, but it was like staring into the sun. Her face of aloofness wavered then, seemingly a mask the entire time.

"To be perfectly honest with you, Cas," she sighed, with a smile so dejected it only feebly resembled one as she took the book from him, "there wasn't any point in you reading it other than it giving you a reason to come see me again without me having to ask for you directly." The drooped corner of the feeble smile lifted, rendering it more sincere. "It's my evasive way of being proactive."

Of all the things he could have remarked with, he chose, "It's impossible to be evasively proactive."

"Quit being a literal angel for two seconds and listen to me." She tucked away the book in her purse. Then, with one blink, her wry expression became solemn. "_I don't care anymore_," she darkened the words tellingly, "I'm resigned to the reality about God and the universe, and since you're such an independent case, I know I can't hold the same standards I have with people, as in humans, to you."

He bobbed his head slowly in a way that intimated an _"Oh"_ of comprehension. As though it had been voiced, her eyes, always so expressive, flared with persistence.

"No no. Listen. _I_ don't care anymore. This is major. Me. Audrey. If they made a Lion King 4 it would be called Audrey's Pride. And it would be _epic_."

Something in her tone signaled to him the long-awaited return of her good humor, and reasoning it had given him the clearance to do so, he leaned in to kiss her. Unfortunately, he had gauged it all wrong and she reeled her head away from him, raising a taming finger to his lips and applying enough pressure in that one finger to urge him away.

"In spite of that," she pressed on sharply, "bygones aside, I look at this," one of her fingers gripped around the curved handle of the umbrella pointed between them, "and it doesn't _seem_ right. It seems wrong, and not in a funny way, like people who sneeze with their eyes open. Or Obama dancing on Ellen. It's more like…" her eyes swept the ground for the words, then rose back to him, widening with wonder, "… like I'm Madonna and you're that statue from the Like a Prayer music video."

The familiar tide of bemusement took his features, only to be wrenched back a second later and replaced by expectancy when she stepped forward to confront him full on. Her expression was admirably strong, as she steeled herself from showing any signs of vulnerability with her coming words.

"Yes, congratulations, I harbor romantic feelings for you, and while it seems wrong," her eyes fluttered closed, a part of her supposedly caving in as she listed into him helplessly, "it feels _really_ nice."

Only a moment passed before her eyes reopened again, allowing a shadow of vulnerability to wash over them. "I look at you, and before it hits me, every time, that you're an angel in a human's body, I see everything I want in a guy. Poise, intelligence, dignity, good looks, decent fashion sense, an open mind, great hair, a big —"

"Audrey," he wisely cut her off, thrilled on some level to see that she was still as unapologetically forward as ever, "it may have its questionable factors," his eyes burned into hers, urgently emphatic, "but you _are_ indeed looking at me."

This assertion was met with obvious hesitancy. It may be that, with enough draw, her reasoning could be swayed into his favor. Closing a hand around hers on the umbrella handle, he used it as leverage to gently tow her closer to him. It initially wasn't a good sign that her eyes were still open when he kissed her, but after a few discouraging seconds, they did, and her mouth opened to his.

It encouraged him a little too much. His free hand swooped to help itself to the small of her back and crush her to him as he took it upon himself to deepen the kiss. Her resistance was instantaneous, and she pulled her head back. By the look in her eyes, only her conscience was denying her, while her desire begged to be rampantly acted upon.

"Don't do that," he urged gently, dipping his head to meet her lips once more, "Don't hold back."

His lips stole hers before she could speak. All her resistance melted to oblivion and she succumbed to his persistence, her own free hand reaching up to cup his nape. The hand at the small of her back roamed up to splay across her shoulder blades as he sought the exquisite fullness of her mouth. So soft and so wet. It grew to become the type of kiss that should not be shared in such a public place.

Still, it would have made a rather romantic image if it wasn't for the ridiculousness that was her bumblebee umbrella sheltering them both.

Clarity, _dreaded_ clarity, hit her the moment he stayed the kiss to worship her neck. She squeaked like a frightened mouse, shooing him away frenziedly.

"Okay, that's enough! You gotta let me ease into this," she panted, eying him precariously. Something tugged at his notice. He tilted his head in amusement. She blinked irritably. "Is something funny?"

He was smiling, darkly amused. "You're me."

"'scuse me?"

"When I first encountered these types of situations with you, I approached it with the same vacillation. Our roles have reversed."

For a few moments, she scrutinized him. There was no indication if what was passing through her mind was at all related to what he had just said.

"Why did you hang around with me anyway?" she asked, her new demeanor suggesting she was disappointed he had done so, edging towards bitter.

"For the very same reason I came here to New York: curiosity." As he answered, his gaze strayed to the Tiffany's window they were standing by. He found inspiration beyond the glass. "Every diamond is unique, even though they may appear the same to the naked eye. Familiarize yourself with one, however, and you come to discover its singularities."

Eyes flicking back to her and spotting her clueless stare, he clarified. "The only humans I would communicate with before I met you were Sam and Dean Winchester. Being in their presence for four years led me to believe that I knew everything there was to know about a human." The sternness retreated from his tone, a warm resonance succeeding it. "And then, dressed outrageously, with hair of a color wholly inconceivable through natural development, and had the audacity to argue against everything I knew and stood for, was you."

"To be fair," she delicately interposed, "when I argued, I didn't think it had _that_ much importance to you."

"Selfishly," he solemnly went on, "I chose to leave you in your ignorance, in preference to me overlooking you and your idiosyncrasies and remaining in my own ignorance. In time, one feeling led to another." His mouth twitched thoughtfully, passing his tongue over his back teeth. "I believe curiosity is a form of lust, after all." His gaze, which had wandered afar with that line of thinking, snapped back to her with an inquiry found. "Is your drawback one of intimacy?"

Her lips puckered like those of a patronized little girl. "You of all people should know that _I_ know all about intimacy, back to front. Preferably front." Suddenly retiring, she blinked petulantly. "I just don't know how to do all that, _now_, with you, with the way things are."

His eyes contemplated her, a glint of a challenge in them. "I failed to recognize any resistance from you the last time I saw you."

She pressed her lips firmly together in an effort to subdue the smile that threatened to sabotage her stony exterior. "A kiss is a kiss. Sex is complicated. Especially when one party's body is free to lose any hunk of their flesh and grow it back like a starfish."

Prurience got the better of him. "Perhaps that's a good thing."

As her jaw dropped, her eyes seared him with fierce disapproval, though there remained a whisper of amusement in her voice. "Oh, an angel should _not_ be making jokes like that." The searing look dimmed. Whatever embellished his own eyes remained. When she spoke again, she renewed her somber tone. "If only I could harness such a peculiarity and manipulate it into something rewarding."

He tilted his head inquisitively. "Are you referring to what you humans call a fetish?"

"Yeah. NO!" she abruptly shrieked, eyes wide in horror, "Forget that! Wipe that from your mind —"

Unthinkingly, a suggestive note snuck its way into his tone. "I could assist with that proposition."

The implication made her burn up as she gaped at him. Only a squeak emerged before she spoke. "Castiel, no, that's just sick!"

He gave her the driest look he could conceive of, one that seemed to furtively say "Well, all things _considering_…", which she read well.

"I'm not sick!" she shot back, overtly indignant, "Cas, this isn't comparative to things like…" Her mouth worked guardedly as she cast a self-conscious glance around, her voice retiring, "Well I don't wanna state the terms in public!" she hissed fiercely.

"How modest you are, all of a sudden," he observed, unable to resist a slightly patronizing lilt.

A pointed finger flicked out to him in umbrage. "Hey! Just because I am a sexually liberated woman in the modern age doesn't mean I'm open for absolutely anything! It doesn't matter that you're one of God's messengers and it may seem delightfully forbidden and morbidly exciting, and it doesn't matter that you're a warrior of Heaven…" the note of certitude in her voice began to shrink, as it did in the expression on her face, "with supernatural powers… and strength and… _authority_ and, stuff, and, and…"

The rhythm of her words began to dwindle like the weak ending of a song performed by a very unrehearsed orchestra, which he could only witness with a strange sort of delight.

"… and, it doesn't matter that you're an angel of the Lord, the purest being possible…" her eyes departed focus as she became more and more unraveled, both to him and herself, "yet only desire to make a bed creak for one human in all of creation… and it's me … th–that, that does _nothing_ for me…"

The telltale blush on her face told him otherwise. Trust her desire for him to betray her in the end. When he locked eyes with her and smirked just a little, in a roguish way that could only have been an influence of Gabriel's, it made her swell with umbrage. She appeared intent on verbally tearing him a new asshole again, but after glancing at their surroundings and finding more people lingering about than before, she simply wrenched an expression over features that was one of extremely forced calm.

"Take me home, Cas," she huffed, tapping her foot.

That snapped him out of it. "Through my methods?"

"I need to say something to you that you wouldn't want being vocalized in the presence of other people," she told him cuttingly, her subtle glare unwavering.

"Are you planning to launch a fruit bowl at me like you did Professor?"

"I did not throw a fruit bowl at him!" she sniped hotly, but then quieted. "It was a gravy boat."

Sighing to himself, he obeyed to her request (demand, really). However, peering around, there was absolutely nowhere they could just "dematerialize" and not be noticed. They would always be well within sight, or at least a part of someone's peripheral vision which, if they vanished, would attract their notice. Then, an idea materialized itself.

A hand pressed against the small of her back, guiding her with him as he stepped up to the curb. Imitating what Jody had done earlier, he blew a whistle through his fingers, startling Audrey, to hail a cab.

Could he _be_ any more localized?

Not before pulling her umbrella closed, she piled into the vehicle with him, and before the driver could request their desired destination, Castiel reached over and pressed his fingers to the man's head. Both watched as the man passed out and slumped down in his seat; Castiel's expression being one of nonchalance while Audrey's was of amusement.

"That was sooo –" When he looked at her expectantly, her gleeful grin vanished. "– _not _impressive, at all."

Without further ado, he reached forward to touch her brow, and then they were gone.

* * *

"Wow," she uttered, gaping at her home as though it were the act of instant transit itself, "It's like from the movie Jumper."

As she swept a gaze around her living room, it came to stop on him. Hastily, she added, "Which isn't cool or anything. It's just, like, nothing." He blinked at her, not of a mood or a mind to look smug or impatient or anything. A tongue-lashing was to come and he was waiting for it. When the gleam of menace rekindled in her eyes, it seemed she had hoarded a wealth of words for this moment.

"As – I – was – _saying,_" she shelled out in short, sinister fragments, and by the way she was prowling over to him, he braced himself for an impressive rapid fire of words.

But he should have known that a prowl was usually followed by a pounce when she lunged forward for him instead. His arms became inundated with her and he fell back on her sofa, the air knocked right out of him like a football to the gut. He was taken further by surprise when she kissed him hungrily.

She hadn't jumped on him like that since one of their arguments (see: conversations) exploded from a powder keg of sexual frustration, which, ultimately, resulted in that graze on her inner thigh he had later healed. It was so unexpected, but certainly not worth ruining for questions.

Her bandleader jacket was fought off, as was his trench coat. Somehow, it was achieved without parting their lips, which continued to devour each other. Dare he touch those legs of hers he fancied so much but could only appreciate from a distance of late? He did. His hands stroked up the back of her straddling legs to slip beneath the lace trim of her skirt, groping her there greedily. It was just as satisfying as a kiss, and by the sound she made, she opined the same. There, he held her as a base to maneuver her over to lie under him.

The instant she was on her back, she took his head between both hands and detached his lips from hers, suddenly very staid, as though she was without a man on top of her and between her legs.

"Tell me you're an angel of God."

So, she was making an effort to regard their hitch as a thing of benefit? In that case, he would have to up the ante if he aspired to bend that effort into his will.

Attention was commanded from her lips again, a diversionary move to collaborate with his hand sidling south to reach between her legs; his other propping himself over her. A man sturdily looming over a woman literally in the palm of his hand. It was the very image of dominance. Likewise, when his fingers curled in a way he knew she favored, she arched into his possession, mouth opening without the power of speech, thus portraying the coordinating image of submission.

"I'm an angel of God," he whispered hoarsely against her neck, burningly close to her ear. She panted out a breathless _"Oh my God"_ as she writhed against his hand.

He lifted his head to look at her face, and by all appearances, she was responding to all this the way he hoped she would, receiving further confirmation when her body tightened ravenously for him. All trace of reservation in her eyes (and, he imagined, all reservation at all) had been displaced by a heat that seemed to roar with seething desire. It spread throughout her body in a fitful energy. Her legs on either side of his meddling hand opened and flexed needily for him.

"I'm going to Hell, Cas," she breathed deliriously, watching keenly as he descended forward to her. A soft breath caressed her lips as he smiled against them, but did not kiss.

"I intend to make sure you don't," he murmured against her mouth, before drawing away from her entirely and sliding off her underwear in one slick movement. Her legs that had been encompassing his form sat open and expectant to him. No further invitation was needed. His teeth gnawed against her knee, just above her high socks, not leaving her skin as they skated up and inward. "I have the authority to do that, because I'm an angel of God, the purest being…"

"No, you're not," she joked breathlessly, staring at the ceiling above her as she felt her legs be moved to hook over his shoulders.

"Yes, I am," was the last thing she heard before he gave her a reason to thrash her hands out to cling onto the sofa's upholstery and cry out. Gasping, she tried to sit up. He pushed her back down.

The ragged cries she made were barely contained as she writhed and clawed at everything around her, as though she thought she would somehow scrape some clarity within the profusion of pleasure he was giving her. He remained as calm as he was merciless in his task.

Eventually, her cries sputtered into a wicked laugh, as she defiantly taunted out another, "No, you're not."

"… yes, I am."

"Stop answering me," she growled desirously, before tearing out an outright howl when his tongue dipped harder into her, punishingly. She let out a sob of need when he slithered up her body to meet her face to face. He kissed her exhaustively, silencing her, drawing her tongue to dance with his. There was an eroticism to that kiss, in light of where his tongue had been.

Her bare lower body rubbed against his own, still clothed; seeking him, calling for him. His eyes opened with sudden determination, a violent flash of want. He couldn't wait any longer. As his hand still flirted with her between her legs and felt it tender from his attentions, he knew she couldn't either.

All at once, both his palms curved over her hipbones. Flipped her over. A hungry growl escaped her. There was an odd thrill promised to him in this, for the key reason that she dominated him with her lordly disposition every day, but _he_ dominated _her_ in intimacy.

Knowing what he was suggesting with the motion in an instant, she reared into him wantonly. He pushed up her skirt.

* * *

They didn't bother with the bedroom. When it came to intimacy, Castiel held no standards for it and Audrey was never one for conventionality. It was a match made in … whatever place that encouraged an angel of God to take a human girl from behind on lounge furniture. Now there's a sentence surely approved by the prophet Chuck.

Both were inherently frustrated. Castiel loathed how much he loved her while Audrey didn't _want_ to want him in that same way. It added a touch of … aggression, which made for a quick, auditorily pleasing transition from a moan to a carrying, out of control cry from Audrey. When a growl crept into her cries, he had known that she was close. It had risen in pitch, definitely approaching, higher now, almost there, _ungh_…

Similarly, things had poured out of his mouth like water from a dam in tones of darkness, and in such a state of desire, he hadn't the wherewithal to analyze them before they fell, nor could he register the sheer unusualness of such things he was saying at the time.

While wallowing in the wake of such impassioned acts, he could not recall anything he had said, at least not in fidelity. The word "sinner" had been thrown in there somewhere, as well as "ravished", "take", "understand", "mine" and a particularly disgraceful word, both in its noun and verb context. In (vague) retrospect, he was glad he couldn't remember.

The satisfying memory of having her was more than enough. How could something so exclusively human feel so transcendent, every time?

In the stillness of the night, she lazed on her stomach, quietly luxuriating in the way the skin on her back burned and chilled as his lips skimmed across it. He brushed her hair back to expose her neck to him, and breathed in her warmth, smelling him on her. His head followed her movements when she slightly turned her own to him over her shoulder; eyes not on him, however.

When she said nothing, he began to grow anxious. "Does this feel wrong to you?"

Her eyes calmly went to him. "No." He arched away from her in anticipation. "Remember what I said before, that I didn't care anymore? Do you know _why_ I don't care anymore?" His eyes stirred questioningly. "They say," she started, working past the lump in her throat, "to _love_ someone means to see him as God intended him."

Oh.

A feeling flooded him, a beautiful marriage of relief, gratification and a swelling affection, evidenced only by the way his eyes began to glow softly. It heightened to infinity when the same warmth gleamed in her eyes, that for so long had only regarded him with a smarting coldness. The sentiment floated between them, unspoken but understood in their eyes. It was still there even when those eyes closed, enclosing the space between them until their lips met.

They were going to be fine.

* * *

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Predictably, it's Audrey who ruined the mood, when she bit his lip and reared into him once more in invitation.

"Up for round two?"

* * *

I'm sooooo sorry that I've had to rush this story. Literally, the day I post the final chapter will be the day I leave for Sydney and I leave everything behind (the 7th). Final chapter, comin' right up.

Read and review (for the love of God, please review!) :D


	48. Let's Hear It For New York

HOLY SHIT, I know I was supposed to post this the day I left but I was too stressed out and emotional with the whole task of moving out of home and into another freakin' state that I couldn't bring my A-game to the story. Turns out I left at the right time since, a few days later, my city was struck with those Queensland floods that's been on the news lately. IT'S THE APOCALYPSE!

Erm, anyway. Here's the final chapter at long last, which doesn't really add _anything_, really, lol.

* * *

"The World Trade Center used to be over there," she said, pointing. The finger then shifted over a few inches. Liberty Island. "And I was over there. Actually, no, I was on the ferry on my way there, so I was forced to watch the first tower fall while I was on it, and I was forced to watch the second one fall when I got on the island."

At 1AM, the Empire State Building's 86th floor observation deck was deserted; their only company being the dazzling kaleidoscope of city lights before them, challenging those of the night sky. Her arm was looped around his, reviving a tradition he had missed, with her lazing her head snugly against his shoulder further to his fancy. It had always failed him as to why humans randomly attached moods and sentiments to things; music, colors, the weather, etc. It seemed so pointless in essence. But now, he was beginning to understand.

Everything about this felt… romantic. The scenery, the body language, the stillness – not _silence_, as it implied a conscious absence of words when, to them, it was presently unrecognized. To a bystander, they were two completely different people from completely different societal backgrounds. Strangers on the ground below, but uncommon lovers 1050 feet in the air.

That was, until she said the above. Looking down at her, he found her obscenely shadowed lids still drooped over her eyes that were fixed to the view (or rather, to the memory tied to such a view).

"I'm sorry you had to see that," he acknowledged, with a low note of empathy.

A soft snort. "You've seen worse, I'm sure. You've been to Hell."

She seemed dismissive. Especially since she didn't look at him when she said this.

"I'm not after competition with your experiences," he put forward, his tone inflected with something resembling reassurance. When it threaded her attention, he added, "I don't trivialize it at all."

When she stared at him then, with startling acuity, it reminded him that her talents of profoundly fixed regards were _almost_ as good as his. It was curious to for once be on the receiving end of such a needling stare. After a long moment, rousing in her eyes was the burning curiosity she'd had forced to lie passive. Her arm unlooped from his.

"I have so many questions for you that I know, already, I don't want the answers of," she muttered, stepping to front him. "Like, where did those terrorists go? Heaven or Hell? They weren't evil, they were just horribly misguided by their religion – is their God even real?" Her words seemed to rebound back to hit her. "Oh, see? These are fatal questions!" she cried.

These conversations were a given, and although he was well aware of this, an urge to sigh harassed him, which he respectfully desisted from.

"You should not dwell on these things," he told her, tenderly cupping her face with his hands as he enclosed the space, "They're no concern of yours." His words were sealed with a kiss. The icing on the sickly sweet "Romance on top of the Empire State Building" cake.

It was only one kiss, but when he pulled away, she breathed comfort. The feverish light in her eyes had been wheedled away by that kiss when she opened them to him. Filling it instead was, to his relief, her characteristic playfulness that promised amorous to borderline lewd utterances. It made his lips pull to one side in advance. Communicating without words – they were back to normal.

"You know what's a concern of mine?" she asked, coloring her tone with coyness. Her hands slipped under his trench coat and she laced her fingers behind his back. "Maybe you could help me," she purred, a flirty little smile growing partly on her face, "since you're_ oh-so wise_."

Just as coyly, he cocked his head inquiringly at her, forever finding her kittenish demeanor compelling.

"It's a bit of a pickle, it's probably out of your hands," she prattled on, feigning neutrality, "but y'see, I'm a human girl, right? And there's this guy. An angel of the Lord, to be specific –" her hands behind his back pulled him closer, and the flat expression on her face came alive with affection, "– and I've fallen in love with him. It. Him. Whatever."

The reminder that she was his (she was his, she was _his!_) made him smile. "It should be received as a compliment to your character that your sentiments are requited, let alone felt at all."

Her eyes adored him. Then they squinted with second thought. "I'm talking about _you,_ Cas," she threw in abruptly, casting him a sharp look.

His smile vanished. "I… know."

Pleased again, her smile reclaimed its place, and she raised herself onto her toes to give him a kiss. His lips were at the ready when she jolted back to regard him, wide-eyed.

"You never did tell me what you thought about that book," she noted perkily.

His eyes went astray for three seconds. Then back to her. "It was nice."

The word made her lips stretch outwards, grinning without showing teeth. "Surely a classic like Peter Pan would warrant something more than that unimaginative adjective?" she questioned innocently, dallying with the knot of his tie.

"Fantastical elements are very foreign to me," he replied, his mechanical tone discordant with the way his arms flowed around her waist, reciprocating her embrace, "especially since I've forever and only been cognizant with stark realities of the universe."

The way she tilted her head at his answer could only have been of his own influence. "You're a real life Alice," she observed, voice bouncing with amusement. "Well well then," she outstretched her arms, gesturing the… everything, really. "Welcome to my tea party, Alice! Not to be confused with the political movement," she added discreetly. Then, eyes alight, and in an English accent, "If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn't. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn't be. And what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?"

He regarded her as though her face was a maze and he had fast become lost. A charmed little smile began to peek when it occurred to him that this little oddity before him was all _his_. His reaction was responded with a thin pressing of lips in a contemplative expression as she bobbed her head with grave decision.

"Hm. You'll have to read Alice in Wonderland too." Her embrace left him. "Wendy should have stayed with Peter, don't you think? Like a companion! Like a Doctor Who companion! Wouldn't it be fun to follow someone around to exotic places and have adventures? I could totally be Donkey to someone's Shrek. Or a Marty McFly. No, I'm no McFly. I'm the Doc! Always, the Doc…"

While the latter half of that had been tossed out lightly before she turned away from him, the weight of unthinking suggestion hit him hard. It… _would_ be pleasant to have her around all the time, constantly baffling and captivating him at the same time, challenging his intellect and seducing him into corners.

Before he could even consider the definite drawbacks, he blurted a question. "Do you deem yourself that bold?"

Head whipping back to him, she pasted a look of hurt onto her face. "Excuse me, I was born without fear. Like inhibition, or a second kidney!"

He was still fumbling to catch the answer she'd thrown at him when she strolled off. Still processing it on some level, he followed. "If someone were to ask you to run away with them, would you do it?"

The spontaneity of his question caught _himself_ off guard, and he stopped. It was as though it had been sequestering itself in the deep corners of his mind, only to just then make a fast escape on him.

After making a face that puzzled over this for a second, she answered breezily, "I'd consider it. Depends who it is, and it depends where we go." Misreading his stilled expression for muted outrage, she smirked and smacked him sportively on the arm. "Don't worry, you can come too!"

He blinked out of the reverie he had indulged himself in, shading his features with gravity and nodding the same way. "Good. I don't ever wish to leave your side. This is forever, as I am."

"As is waiting in line at the post office," she joked feebly. The lack of levity in her bearing became more pronounced. "But, um, are you sure it's wise to pin, you know, eternity onto us?"

"Do you see any wisdom at all in our situation?"

His retort earned him a wide, open-mouthed smile, comprehending, before she pointed a finger at him and then tapped her nose twice, conveying a "touché". Then, she continued.

"Well anyways, at _some_ stages you would have to physically leave my side," she pointed out, her manner suggesting she found herself to be pretty insightful in doing so. "Surprising me last night in the shower, while exciting, was not exactly decorous of you."

He tilted his head eloquently. "I'm wearing your lip gloss and it's not _anywhere_ near my lips." His eyes were keen and darkly provoking. "You can't claim you're decorous either."

"Either?" There was _that_ gleam in her eyes again. "So you admit that you're a dirty —"

"Do you say these things as means to provoke me?" he quizzed, not exasperated but discovering himself to be progressively arch around her.

"You let me keep you on your toes," her voice was pitched low and lilted seductively, as was her stride to him, "and I'll let you shove me to my knees."

"Duly noted."

As it was the only way to congest the unbridled flow of ridiculousness from her unblushing mouth, he reached forward for her and brought their mouths together, silencing her giggles.

Only she would have the audacity to know the reality about him, and his nature, and the universe, and _still_ set out to flirt immodestly with him. He was doomed to her and couldn't care less anymore. There was no doubt in his mind that he very much preferred Can't-Keep-Her-Hands-Off-Of-Him Audrey over Go-Away-And-Leave-Me-Alone Audrey. She was truly a unique being. Almost unwisely fearless in suggestion and seduction, refined by those long lashes and that quick mouth.

He also wondered what his own increased prurience said about himself. Sam and Dean, particularly Dean, must never know. He would never hear the end of it.

It was only when something in the distance caught his eye that he broke the kiss.

"I'm the size of that building."

Her eyes flicked down at him for a split second. An eyebrow quirked satirically. "Think a lot of yourself, don't you?" she quipped, glazing her lips with a fresh coat of gloss.

The weary look he turned on her was adorned with a quiet smirk. "I was referring to the reality that my true form bears similar dimensions," he said flatly.

All satire left her face, now glancing between him and the building behind her, wondered. "The Chrysler?" Her smile curled in one corner. "Remind me to call you if Cloverfield ever happens."

"What's a Cloverfield?"

"A really bad movie."

It didn't matter that all talk of pop culture was entirely beyond his knowledge, as he had noticed that she had already abandoned that boat and jumped back onto another. When he followed her gaze, he found that it hit exactly where he _expected_ it to hit. Again.

"Audrey," he murmured, "I couldn't have interfered with the ways of the Lord." He said it as sincerely as he could. He tipped his head in the direction of where the Twin Towers once stood, and where the regrettably new One World Trade Center now reached for the skies. "It was fated to happen."

Heavy, gloomy eyes blinked at him. "Like us?"

His jaw twisted around in thought. "Perhaps."

She regarded him in silence. The stir in her eyes told him that she was bursting with questions, but was struggling to sort through them. Finally, in one exasperated breath, "It makes no sense that it's supposed to make sense that I'm not supposed to understand something that doesn't make sense. Does that make sense?"

A considering pause. "It's likely that that is the most coherent thing you have ever said."

Instead of taking offense, she dimpled reluctantly. Her rare moments of genuine demureness were rather endearing. It made him smile. Made him want to kiss her.

"Uh uh!" She raised a finger, halting him when he sought her lips. "You don't wanna kiss me."

"But I do," he replied, almost in a tone of question. He dipped his head toward her once more, only to be stopped again in the same way.

"Not unless you want Maybelline lip gloss all over your face," she forewarned. "I _just_ put it on."

He paused, looked down at her lips with a particularly thoughtful expression, before producing a tissue from the pocket of his trench coat. She caught this motion immediately and her eyes flew open.

"But that doesn't mean you can – _mmmf!_"

With little regard for her wish to speak, he wiped the tissue across her lips.

"Dammit, Cas!" she mewled, once his hand withdrew, "That was supposed to last for the rest of the —"

This time, he silenced her with his lips.

No resistance was met and she swung both her hands over his shoulders, crossing them behind his neck in one fluid motion as she kissed him back. It was an ineffable feeling, having this human all to himself in such a way and yet not suffering beneath the burden of deceit. The Winchester brothers were right. Suffering was needed to fully appreciate joy, and _oh_, how he enjoyed her. No more "mere existing" for Castiel; his Audrey brought him _alive_. His Audrey. She was _his_. It astounded him every time it struck his mind.

Her hair was his to rake his fingers through. Her eyes were his to stare into. Her body was his to touch and worship. Her lips were his to kiss and appreciate every word that fell from them. His, his, his. The reality was recognized and sealed with one assertive kiss after the other.

Neither withdrew from the intimate proximity, basking in it instead, when they adjourned the kiss. In the stillness, everything around them seemed to be suspended in time. There was no indication of movement save for the twinkling of lights around them. Everything was perfect, finally perfect.

"One question, then. Just one," he heard her mumble into his neck, breaking the respite. "If Heaven exists, where is it?"

Ah, _this_ impossible question. Almost as a gesture of consolation, his fingers stroked through the tresses that spilled over her back. "I can't simply point in a direction to indicate its existence."

Pause. "How about north, south, east or west?"

Taking her by the shoulders, he guided her away from him, holding her at arm's distance to cage her full attention. "I'm not being cryptic, Audrey. Do not have the idea that I don't wish to share it with you. I simply _can't_. It's one of the few things that is ever really, truly, literally impossible to do."

He painfully watched as her gaze fell and dragged itself away, in a rather sore expression of resignation. It pained him to disappoint her, and he was a walking reminder of her failure. After a minute of silent disappointment, he reached back over to her. She looked back at him the instant his hand touched her chin to tip her head up to him. Decidedly toning the solemnity down a notch, he spoke.

"But," he carried on delicately, "if I had to affix a position for it," he pointed a finger to the sky, steering both their gazes toward it, "it would be the second star to right and straight on 'til morning," he glanced back to her, pleased to find a smile blooming at her lips _and_ her eyes, "and one day I'll take you there."

Humming in favor, she bridged her arms over his shoulders. "I look forward to it," she whispered lovingly, before drawing him down to narrow the space with their lips.

The end.

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No, wait.

A few feet away from them, a payphone began to ring.

The two parted. Shared a look of mutual bemusement for one, two, three seconds. As one, they turned in the direction of it. They stared at it, stock-still.

Another empty three seconds passed before, after reviving from the stillness and granting her a cautioning look, he walked over to the ringing device and answered it himself.

"Hello?"

The impact of the voice on the other end startled him when it emerged.

"AHA! Castiel! It's Gabriel! Hoo, y'know, I called twenty-seven other payphones before this but finally I've found ya! And now that I have, I have to ask you to come to Vegas! Nope, sorry, let me remove the word "ask" and replace it with the word "order". You gotta come here, bro! I'm pretty sure I impregnated a demon and now I'm being forced into a shotgun wedding and while I _do_ love the notoriety that comes with quickie Vegas weddings, especially when it's being performed in the same chapel Billy Ray Cyrus had his wedding in, which we all know what dreaded act of God stemmed from _that_ marriage, I CAN'T MARRY, CASTIEL, I CAN'T, I AM NOT A ONE WOMAN ANGEL."

His mouth opened to interject, but Gabriel went on without a beat. "And! I am pretty sure Sir Elton John is under my bed but he's too afraid to come out and frankly," his voice shrank, almost to a squeak, "I'm too afraid to look! So! Assuming AngelGate is over, pull out whatever body part you've inserted inside your crimson-haired Daisy Buchanan, head to the nearest Walmart, "liberate" a gallon of mayonnaise, motor oil, none of that Castrol crap, an enema kit, a magnifying glass, some Mentos, Coke – as in Coca Cola, but cocaine would be fabulous in any case – a turkey baster, a pack of Depends, three-way light bulbs – yes, that's what they're called – the Who Framed Roger Rabbit DVD, Vaseline, a box of tissues, a pack of Red Apple cigarettes, the biggest mirror you can find, something with refined sugar, and also, find me a white Honda Civic, would you?"

There was beeping in the background. "HOLD YOUR HORSES, I'M COMING, I'M COMING!" To Castiel, he clarified. "My microwave. Anywho. Drop all the bits and pieces in the Spanish villa of Caesar's Palace and meet me in this nice, innocent little gentleman's club called The Pleasure Chest; I have some friends I'd like you to meet. And no, it's not the brothers Winchester, buuuut if my calculations are correct, they should be driving down the Strip aaaaany minute now. Adios, amigo!"

Just when he thought he had finally earned a moment to speak, he heard the _beep, beep, beep_, informing him that the line was dead. To say that Castiel was disorientated would be an understatement. It even took a bit of studied effort to will him into remounting the phone receiver onto its platform. After a few dithering seconds of casting an air that said "Um, er, uh", he spoke.

"I have to go," he said, before peering at her for her reaction. His traditionally sober expression bore an added shadow of dejection. He didn't want to go. He wanted to stay with her.

Her lips pouted a little as she tugged the sleeve of his trench coat. "I don't want you to go," she mumbled. "I don't want that lesbian near Rockefeller Center hitting on me again."

"I believe that was someone named Dana Carvey."

"No idea who she is."

Resisting the urge to correct her and tell her that Dana Carvey was actually a man, he resumed, "I don't wish to leave you either."

Her pout dissolved into a dejected but resigned smile, before giving him her blessing by squeezing his hand. In recognition, he took her chin in one hand, bringing her close to tenderly kiss her temple.

A job had to be done and he had to leave her behind.

And he would have to do so _every single time._

Was this really worth it?_  
_

Nodding grimly, he turned and walked away.

The end.  
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But.

He stopped. His face clouded.

He didn't want to – couldn't – wouldn't – wouldn't _ever_ leave her again.

So, he did exactly what the universe cheered him on to do: he turned around.

"Audrey," he called.

From her reverential watch over the dazzling city below her, she angled her head to reacknowledge him. When he just stood there, she pointedly fixed him with an expectant look.

He stepped forward and asked.

"Are you at all fond of the city of Las Vegas?"

She smiled at him.

* * *

Blaahekfdljsflk. Flimsy ass ending, I know. Oh well.

Thank you so much to everyone who took an interest to this story! Hopefully the next time you hear of me, my name will be attached to a project as director or screenwriter…

As for a sequel, well, if I had the time to write a sequel, I certainly wouldn't have condensed and rushed this story in the first place. So, I'm leaving it open to your imaginations. ;)

**PRETTY PRETTY PLEASE LEAVE FEEDBACK! 8D _(or donate to get my hometown the hell out of the water.)_**


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